


Mysig

by dreamersdeservebetter



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/F, I'd warn you if there's angst, No Angst in this one, Tags will be updated as the story progresses, Teacher AU, enjoy the gross cuteness
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-13
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-08-08 11:46:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7756687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamersdeservebetter/pseuds/dreamersdeservebetter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Swedish, adj.) A cozy, exceptionally pleasant, comfortable or relaxing place or situation.</p><p>Think of a warm living room on a cold evening with a fire crackling, flickering candles and a comfortable couch to sink into.</p><p>Or perhaps.</p><p>That feeling of comfort and ease transferred to what a certain two women might experience when they're together, for reasons they can't begin to explain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Hi, I’m Clarke.”

Her voice hits an uncomfortable pitch, cracking over the hard k that bookends her name.

She grimaces at her reflection, releasing a short, impatient breath.

“Okay, okay. Let’s try this again.” She clears her throat and shakes her head before meeting her own eyes in the mirror. A confident smile blooms across her face and she extends an arm forward in a mock-handshake.

“Hi-” She croaks. Immediately Clarke’s face falls, and she rolls her eyes in frustration.

“Come on, Griffin, what the hell?” She whispers exasperatedly. Smoothing her palms over the front of her uncharacteristically conservative black skirt, she mutters under her breath about being able to sing but not speak like a normal human being. Her fingers tremble as she tucks strands of hair behind her ear, then she sighs and stands staring down at her hands as if they had committed some terrible act of betrayal.

“Hey, princess! Car’s waiting out front, you wanna be late or something? It’s not like this is some boring college lecture to miss,” Raven’s voice snaps Clarke back to reality. Giving herself a final once-over, she picks up her bag and heads for the front door.

~

“You okay? You’re awfully quiet today,” Raven addresses Clarke without taking her eyes from the road, but her casual tone is tinged with genuine concern. They had spent the first fifteen minutes of the drive in silence, the only sound being Raven’s roadtrip playlist, which usually gets Clarke pumped and ready to take on the world. But today, she sits rigidly in the passenger side, chewing her lip, worry creasing her forehead.

“Huh? Oh, I’m fine. Just… I’m nervous, is all. It’s never been so real before. I feel so unprepared.”

Raven pulls the car over, waving the minivan behind them on. She then clamps her hand down on top of Clarke’s to stop her from picking at the skin stained with paint she didn’t quite manage to scrub away, and ducks her head to look the artist squarely in the face.

“Look here, sunshine. We always knew you were going places. You’ve got talent and a spark like no one else I know. And you keep that flame alive with all your intense attention to detail. But you gotta step back from all that perfectionism sometimes because you’ll drive yourself nuts. It’s going to go great. You made a great impression right off the bat and I think you clicked really well from what you’ve told me. You’re nervous, I get that. But you’re going to knock this thing out of the ballpark, I guarantee it.”

Raven punches Clarke in the shoulder, starts the ignition and pulls back onto the empty road.

“Ow!” Clarke is laughing, her eyes sparkling. “You sure know how to give a pep-talk, Reyes. Just ease up a little on the physical abuse next time, ‘kay?”

“No promises,” Raven smirks, “Now let’s get you there. Party girl Griffin didn’t get all dressed up for nothing today.”

***

Lexa smooths a steady hand over her spotless silk tie and lets out a slow breath. She has been teaching at Arkeda for three years now. Despite being the youngest addition to their staff, Lexa has already established herself as an essential player in how the institution is run and more importantly to her, how students are respected and taught in a personal and understanding manner.

She is always apprehensive at the beginning of the year, facing new students provides an exciting, if trying couple of weeks while she moulds her curriculum to fit the energy and capabilities of the classes. Her keen intellect and attention to educational needs on an individual basis quickly made her into a student favorite and ensures that her classes are in the highest demand every semester.

This being the case, she expanded her classes to history at the request of Jasper, head of the social science department. However, her true passion lies in the times she stands before a group of new students to speak her opening words: _Heya, youngon. Monin Trigedasleng honet won- Hello, students. Welcome to Trigedasleng 101._

Her phone buzzes in her pocket, drawing her attention back to the present and she pulls it out to check on the new message.

 **Anya (Tatertots-hots) [7:32 AM]**  
hey kid, you ready to kick ass?

Lexa smiles at the familiar moniker and taps out a reply before retrieving the pressed grey blazer draped over the back of one of her dining room chairs.

 **Lex-specs [7:32 AM]**  
Yes, Anya. I am well prepared. It will be a pleasure to see all of my students again.

She moves to the living room to grab her keys from the wooden dish on her coffee table and is heading for the front door before her phone buzzes again.

 **Anya (Tatertots-hots) [7:34 AM]**  
jeez lex, try to sound a little more calm and collected

**Lex-specs [7:35 AM]**  
Sarcasm. Certainly your most endearing quality, sister of mine.

**Anya (Tatertots-hots) [7:36 AM]**  
ha! and youre calling me out for it? see you later for drinks? remember theyre on me tonite

**Lex-specs [7:36 AM]**  
When are they not? You are the bartender and the owner, after all.

**Anya (Tatertots-hots) [7:38 AM]**  
hey, dont diss the one in charge of the booze, sis

**Lex-specs [7:39 AM]**  
Heavens no, Anya, never. I will see you tonight. Have a nice day.

**Anya (Tatertots-hots) [7:41 AM]**  
see ya, bookworm. love you

**Lex-specs [7:42 AM]**  
I love you too.

Lexa settles into her car, smiling softly as she turns the key and backs carefully out of her driveway onto the empty, tree-lined road.

***

Raven gets out of the car after Clarke, “Hey, text me when you’re done, I’ll be at the lab ‘til five unless someone calls for a consultation. We’ll grab burgers at Polis or something and you can tell me how it went.”

Clarke’s heart warms at her friend’s suggestion of their familiar routine and she pulls her into a tight hug.

“You’re the best, Raven,” the blonde mumbles into the engineer’s signature red jacket.

“Whoa there, honey bunches. No need to get all sappy just because I gave you a ride,” Raven laughs, but still she relaxes into the hug, pressing her face to Clarke’s cheek.

Breaking into a grin as she pulls away, Clarke gives Raven a playful shove and turns to walk into the building, giving a last little wave over her shoulder. “See you later, loser.”

“You know you love me!” The brunette calls after her, then settles into the car, mimicking an exaggerated soccer mom voice, “See you at home, cupcake. Have a good first day at school.”

***

Lexa arrives half an hour early as usual, and takes the time to reacquaint herself with the campus and familiarize herself with the new classroom layout. Reviewing the first day’s schedule, she notes that they have a briefing on a new instructor in the boardroom on the third floor at eight-thirty.

The Trigedasleng instructor checks her watch and decides to walk to the boardroom first and delve into restructuring her teaching schedule while waiting for the others.

The room holds a few coworkers when she opens the door and they enthusiastically exchange greetings, having not seen one another for several months. Soon enough, they settle into their respective corners, Lexa taking a seat near the back of the room to concentrate on whether week ten’s assignment best aligns with the trajectory of her lesson plan.

***

Clarke walks as if in a fog, pushing through the double doors at the main entrance and navigating the unfamiliar halls to stand in front of a door on the third floor. She barely registers her name being called until a gentle hand comes to rest on her shoulder.

“Earth to Clarke, are you in there?” The artist blinks twice, clearing her mind, and finally turns around to meet warm brown eyes.

“Lincoln, what are you doing here?” She blurts out reflexively and is met with a hearty bout of laughter.

“Clarke, are you really so nervous? Raven texted me to say you’d be needing ‘support and iced coffee’ today, but I didn’t think you’d be this out of it.”

“I- sorry, Lincoln, I’m just so terrified I’m going to mess it all up! What if I’m not funny enough or too much of a killjoy? What if- if-” Clarke looks up into the taller man’s face, reading empathy and mild amusement.

“You are going to be great, Clarke. Everyone is nervous the first time. You’re sweet and smart and charming. You’ll be fine. Breathe.”

Clarke sighs. “Well. Here goes everything.” She smiles at Lincoln, who gives her an encouraging thumbs-up, and turns the handle, stepping into the sunlit room.

The teachers of Arkeda Institute look up with curiosity.

“Everyone, this is our newest addition to the team. She’s a talented young artist and a graduate of Azgeda U whose second and most recent exhibition, Mount Weather, drew a lot of positive attention from the press,” Lincoln announces, drawing smiles from the assembled instructors. “I know you’ll make her feel welcome.” Stepping aside, Lincoln gives the blonde’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Taking a deep breath, Clarke feels excitement overtake her earlier anxieties.

“Hi,” she introduces herself firmly, her shy expression rapidly becoming a brilliant smile.

“I’m Clarke.”

***

As the hour wears on, and Lexa is interrupted more frequently as the rest of the faculty entered the room. She means to stay alert and welcome the new teacher with the warmth and consideration they deserve, but as most know, Lexa’s fatal flaw is her myopic focus. That paired with a perfectionist touch leaves something to be desired in the departments of time-management and attention span.

She vaguely recalls the instructors speaking, their attention focused on something at the other end of the boardroom, but when Lexa finally looks up from her paperwork she finds that she has completely missed the introduction of their new coworker.

She runs a hand through her thick hair and adjusts her reading glasses, making a face. She’s embarrassed to say the least, and on top of that is bordering on late for orientation since the other instructors had left the young woman to her task, their only warning being **Lexa- Orientation @ 9 in auditorium :)** scrawled in red across the large whiteboard at the front of the room.

So Lexa’s school day starts off with a brisk sprint. She makes it on time, of course. Just barely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haaah and you thought they were going to meet. Maybe? Don't care? Okay.
> 
> Hey, welcome to my first Clexa fic. This may be a tiny bit of a slow burn and could take a while for me to write, so just be warned in case you don't want to commit. I will, for sure, finish this fic. I promise.
> 
> Anyway. Clarke is a lovely, out-going, passionate, artistic mess. And Lexa is dapper and ridiculously handsome and put-together but really a doe-eyed dreamer with a dorky streak and sarcasm to boot. I love them. See you next chapter, gaybies


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clarke, you're a mess

“Clarke, you look fantastic, but there’s really no need to dress up so much,” laughs Niylah. She is visiting from the adjoining STEM department and the two have just sat down to talk over the first half of Clarke’s first day in the spacious teacher’s lounge.

Clarke blushes slightly. “I thought there was more of a dress code since it’s a boarding school. Do you have any idea how much of my wardrobe I had to go through to find something a little more formal?”

“Well I mean, have you seen how the rest of us are dressed? The administrators are more formal, but that’s just their style. The teachers are all really chill.”

“Well- I mean-,” the artist sputters, her eyes scouring the lounge for an opposing example. “What about them?”

She looks in the direction Clarke’s attention is abruptly very focused on. The dark-haired instructor sits comfortably with a glass of iced tea by their side, and are dressed in obviously tailored clothes.

“Oh, but that’s Lexa. She’s just… Lexa.” Niylah chuckles lightly then starts digging into her salad, chewing interspersed with a rather one-sided discussion regarding the costs and benefits of offering her students extra credit assignments this semester.

For almost a full minute, Niylah doesn’t notice that Clarke hasn’t uttered a single word since she laid eyes on the woman sitting in the corner of the room.

The brunette maintains an air of casual elegance about her that has Clarke completely mesmerized.

The normally harsh afternoon sunlight streaming through partially curtained windows somehow manages to tangle seamlessly around her. It trails along her defined jawline and high cheekbones, spotlighting her most striking features.

All at once, the artist in her sees a thick mane of chestnut hair in firm, quick brushstrokes and delicate fingers defined in flowing ink. But the area from where lines of concentration creased the center of her forehead to the very tip of her nose remained sketched in rough pencil lines, a map of unrefined crosshatches. Surrounded by pale, teasing shadows, her eyes tempt the imagination, possessing an already magnetic depth that makes Clarke ache to know their color. This woman is already a masterpiece, but Clarke is suddenly certain that those eyes are the heart and soul of this perfect stranger, and something she needs to know intimately.

“...Clarke? Honey, you in there?” Niylah is failing at suppressing a smile. Blinking away her hazy reverie, the blonde woman responds with a graceful, “Huh-wha-?” and Niylah laughs in her face.

“Ohh you’re part of Leskru already! That was quick!” She struggles to keep her giggling under control, but Clarke’s confused expression just aggravates it.

“Les-crew? What’s that?”

“There’s a legion of people here- Mostly students, but a few members of the faculty as well, who have a hopeless crush on Ms. Lexa Woods over there. It’s enough of a following that those of us who are not quite so hypnotized have dubbed them ‘Leskru,’ drawn from Trigedasleng, the language she teaches.”

“I’m not-! I mean. I don’t know what you mean by lumping me in with them,” Clarke protests indignantly, but her expression is sheepish and her cheeks tinged a shade too pink, belying her newly-acquired and surreptitious (albeit rather unsubtle) fascination with the adored instructor.

“Sure, okay then, heart-eyes,” Niylah rolls her eyes good-naturedly. Out of kindness or consideration, she doesn’t bring up Clarke’s unintentional induction into Leskru again that day, despite catching her gaze drifting to the Trigedasleng instructor several more times during the remaining forty-five minutes of their break.

~

Clarke spends the rest of her Tuesday afternoon trying to organize the art supplies that the institute has ordered at her request. It’s quiet in the dusty, sunlit room and she’s grateful for the break in her day. The work is methodical and the artist finds her mind wandering.

Clarke honestly never thought she’d be a teacher. She was never a very good student, and she struggled all through college to maintain a decent GPA. She loved a good many of the classes she took, but there was something about the academic system that she seemed unable to reconcile with her particularly stubborn habits. The artist’s trademarks in college were a propensity to procrastinate, disinterest in assignment completion toward the end of any given semester and her creative needs, which demanded time at the most erratic hours. She wasn’t alone in these shortcomings, but being a perfectionist, they weighed heavy on her.

Her mother was always supportive of her artistic endeavours, although she has professed to not fully understand their hold on her daughter. Abby’s career as a surgeon proudly funded Clarke’s college years, a privilege the artist still feels unworthy of, especially given her scholastic track record.

There were certainly rough patches, especially fresh out of school. God knows there were weeks, months at a time even, that Clarke lied to cover up following her graduation. Quite a few unhappy stretches were spent crashing on Raven or Octavia’s couches, eating nothing but ramen and leftovers from her day job as a waitress or her night job as a bartender.

She was miserable, exhausted, verging on depressed at times and often considered quitting her dream of becoming an artist. _Not everyone makes it, sunshine_ , Raven had said one night when Clarke had come home from a late shift crying because a drunk customer had yelled at her, calling her a useless whore, before being bodily thrown out of the bar. _But you will. You’ve always had it in you. Just gotta show the world what you’ve got._

Six weeks later, Raven handed her friend a paper with a phone number on it. A higher-up in Raven’s firm, Marcus Kane, had seen a painting of Clarke’s in an Azgeda alumni exhibition and wanted to get in touch. He was an up-and-coming tech developer with a penchant for collecting art, but he had seen something special in Clarke’s work and wanted to showcase that spark to the rest of the world.

Three years, two art exhibitions and an international tour later found Clarke searching again for something to push her art to new heights, when Octavia told her about an opening at the boarding school her fiance taught at. The school was relatively new, only about a decade old, but highly regarded as a fine institution and they were looking to expand their humanities department.

Clarke talked it over with Lincoln, expressing her trepidation regarding academia and how well she could teach considering her past difficulties. He explained the school’s mentality, that students come first and it was always about ensuring their growth and that their grades would follow suit. Overcome with the realization that she would have given anything to have that kind of support during her time at school, Clarke decided to apply.

Clarke smiles at the memory and shakes her head. She’s happy, and making art in a way that she loves, something that would have been hard for her twenty-three-year-old self to imagine. She hums contentedly and continues sorting through the newly-purchased paintbrushes and graphite in preparation for Thursday’s classes.

***

Lexa is daydreaming again.

The gentle tilt and bob of a beautifully crafted gondola through the watery passageways of Venice is accompanied by the rolling cadence of Italian folk songs, sung in harmony amongst the gondoliers. It’s cold, but the night is clear and stars freckle the dark sky and reflect in the equally dark rippling water.

The scene shifts and Lexa is wandering down Nakamise Dori, navigating the crowds of families and fellow tourists. The street is lined with shops selling everything from Japanese street food to sets of katana and wakizashi swords and Pokemon keychains.

The jostling fades into the quiet found only away from city lights and the constantly-flowing traffic. A meteor shower streaks the dimming sunset sky, seeming to dip into the desert horizon. She traces patterns along the grain of the warm, sandpapery rock she sits on and levels her gaze on the slowly appearing starlight.

A subtle tap-tap-tap pulls her away from her globe-trotting daydreams. Just a tree branch grazing the window, but still enough to dispel the vision, bringing her back to the empty classroom. She looks around the space critically for a moment, but finally acknowledges that she has done a satisfactory job organizing it for the next day’s classes.

Lexa loves teaching. School has provided solace for her ever since she can remember. For a kid growing up with less than most, the classroom was an almost magical space. It was always warm in the winter and cool in the summer, there was food for the students, help with homework questions and what always seemed to be an endless amount of books.

A shy, introspective child, Lexa learned to read at a young age. She didn’t find the playground games of her peers nearly as engaging as words capturing of far-off places and people, a fascination with language and distant lands she carried with her into adulthood.

She put herself through college, working ridiculous hours on hardly enough sleep to stay sane. Anya helped out, but never more than a thousand dollars or so at a time, and on the strict personal basis that Lexa would pay her back within a month. It was a matter of pride to her that her sister should be making her own way in life and not ever have to worry about how Lexa would fare, whether she could pay the bills and afford to feed herself. And somewhere along the line, her inhuman number of work hours coupled with stubborn savings rate paid enough money to buy herself a car and allow for her taste in well-tailored suits.

Holding down three jobs meant that her grades were never stellar, but her professors all loved her enthusiasm for learning and knew she did her absolute best. So when the time came for her to graduate, Lexa was inundated with heartfelt letters of recommendation to any and all positions she might pursue.

Anya had told her about a position teaching Trigedasleng at a boarding school that a former bouncer of hers, Lincoln, informed her of. He had been working there as a math and PE teacher for the past few years and found the learning environment very fulfilling.

Trigedasleng was a popular language but not in particularly high demand then, so once Lexa had researched the school, she quickly decided to apply for the position. Straight out of college, she found herself teaching at a well-funded, student-focused boarding school with the respect of her peers and she knew she had reached what she had worked so hard for.

The flipside to having such steady job security immediately following school and having never given herself a break during college is that she has yet to travel and see the world, to experience rather than imagine. Lexa has spent a good deal of her life searching for something else, studying hard to make herself a better life, looking beyond what she’s lacked to what she could attain someday. It’s a dreamer’s habit, and a hard one to break. So she often finds her mind wandering over oceans and across foreign lands.

Lexa smiles wistfully, taking her reading glasses off to rub at the bridge of her nose. She can afford some time to be a dreamer these days, but she still has papers to sort through and lesson plans to type up. Dreams can wait. They sit behind closed doors in Lexa’s mind and she can visit them again when the day’s tasks are complete.

***

Clarke is, in every sense, unprepared for her next encounter with Lexa. The artist’s head is bowed, brow furrowed in concentration over a sketch that is beginning to form on the piece of scrap paper she holds to the stack of student introduction documents from her first two classes of the day. The hallway is empty and she feels no need to check her surroundings for potential collisions. She doesn’t look up until it is too late.

***

Lexa is on break at the moment and she has been informed that one of her students was injured in his PE class, so she is hurrying down the hall toward the infirmary. A jammed knee is painful and inconvenient, but it is in no way a serious injury. Nonetheless Lexa’s trademark concern for her students compels her to insure that he is alright, especially seeing as it is only their first week back. She is caught up in her thoughts, reviewing the best caretaking practices for such an injury, and doesn’t notice the other instructor ambling distractedly down the same hallway until they are inches apart.

***

“Oh-!” Neither have time to react properly before running headlong into each other. Papers fly in every direction and Lexa is quickly back on her feet, gathering the scattered sheets, apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention at all,” Lexa’s lips are pressed into a disapproving line over her clumsy mistake.

Clarke has fallen squarely on her backside and, unlike Lexa, finds the whole incident hilarious. She blows a lock of unruly hair out of her eyes, laughing, and something tells Lexa she’s never heard a lovelier sound.

“It’s fine, I’m sorry too! It’s as much my fault as yours-” She falters, realizing who she’s run into. Lexa is moving so fast, Clarke sees everything in snapshots after that- the curve of her wrist as she gathers up the last few papers, the way her hair spills over her shoulder, and those lips...

“Mx? Again, I’m so sorry. You‘ve got to let me make this up to you sometime, but right now I need to check on a student of mine. Are you alright?” Lexa’s hand finds its place firmly on top of Clarke’s, making sure that the artist has all her papers in hand.

Clarke nods, smiling shyly, and fights the urge to look down at the steady hand covering hers. Instead, she settles for an unsuccessful attempt to tear her eyes away from Lexa’s full lips. _Smooth, Griffin. Way to be subtle._

The brunette gives her one last apologetic smile, then releases the artist’s hand and continues toward to the infirmary at her previous pace, thoughts now blurred with a myriad of new feelings and observations centered around the beautiful stranger she had just collided with. _Why didn’t I ask for their name?_

Clarke begins walking mechanically toward the art wing, although by now she has forgotten what for. She almost hadn’t notice that the other instructor’s cheeks were just the tiniest bit flushed, but she wished that she hadn’t because she knows that it will linger in her mind for the rest of the day. Was she just embarrassed? Or maybe it was from the pace of her walk? Or maybe… Just maybe… had she found Clarke attractive?

“Uuuuuugghhhh,” the artist groans into her stack of papers, wishing she possessed a fraction of the other instructor’s charm, rather than the healthy portion of awkwardness she had just displayed.

***

That night, Lexa is reading through student introductions, taking notes in the large canvas-bound notebook Anya had given her at the beginning of the summer. She smiles at the cover, which bears the word “NERD” lovingly stamped in large black letters.

She enjoys the task, hitting her stride with the quiet focus of a serious child methodically fitting puzzle pieces together. Her custom fountain pen glides smoothly over the ivory paper in easy, languid strokes- Lexa’s personal script. She has another for professional and formal occasions that is cleaner and more structured, but notes for herself are written in the elegant, almost sloppy hand that she had developed in and stuck to since college.

The task is fairly mindless, and her thoughts a clean slate. The only intrusion is a wash of bright blue tones that seem to color the background of her consciousness. It is persistent enough that it pulls Lexa out of her headspace, and she frowns slightly at the unwelcome disturbance. She is more displeased with the fact that she cannot not pinpoint its origin than its interruption of her note-taking.

The realization comes like a breath of fresh air. Blue. Bright, clear, captivating blue. The color of a summer sky you can lose yourself in, despite being unable to even comprehend its depth and the stars hidden beyond. The color of the water where land meets a world that’s oceans deep. The color of a person’s eyes. The person Lexa had, quite literally, run into earlier that day. The person whose name Lexa doesn’t even know, but that she hopes to find out soon enough.

Lexa once again puts pen to paper, blushing slightly and staunchly refusing to acknowledge the physical reaction. She works unusually late into the quiet night, smiling softly without knowing it at thoughts of the lovely stranger and their blue eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, welcome (back, if you're still reading)! Look at that, they sort of met. Also I hope you got something out of that little bit of backstory I threw at you. I'm kind of not sure what to say now. Hope you enjoyed it, let me know your thoughts! (Or find me in the pit of chaos that is tumblr- dreamersdeservebetter)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nerds. It's high school all over again.

Raven narrows her eyes at Clarke, who’s stirring an unusual amount of sugar into her coffee. Clarke doesn’t even look as though she’s focused on something that’s bothering her. Raven would recognize the customary crease that appears, crinkling her forehead unconsciously. She’s also not in one of her zoned-out artistic states, the glassy-eyed, dreamy look to her is nowhere to be found. She’s lacking the dark circles under her eyes that normally belie a late night that could take the edge off her charming demeanor.

Not to mention the fact that few things in life can induce Clarke to ruin her precious first morning coffee with the obscene sugary mess that’s sure to be gathering at the bottom of her over-saturated cup.

So Raven squints at the artist suspiciously, taking another bite of her avocado toast.

Clarke sighs. Again. For the THIRD time in what can only have been fifteen minutes and Raven is convinced that she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Nonetheless it clues Raven in to the cause and soon a broad grin is plastered across her face, unnoticed by the blonde who is still stirring the sugar-laden liquid.

Once the engineer has finalized her conclusion, cemented with the observed evidence, she stares openly, waiting for some acknowledgement from her friend to no avail. She clears her throat and Clarke blinks, looking up as if no time has passed.

“So, princess,” Raven’s barely containing her glee. “Who’s the lucky duck?”

“What?”

“Come ooonn, Griff. You’ve been dopey like this for the last week and a half. Who are they?”

“Again, what? Raven if this is some kind of-”

“Oh babe. Sweetiepie. Nougat face,” Raven pauses, “Hm. Last one needs work. Lemme make it simple. Whoooo aaaarreee yoooouu baaaaaannggiiiiiiiiiiiinnggg?”

Clarke looks more confused than ever. “What do you mean? I’m not banging anyone, you know you’d be the first person I’d tell about that.”

Raven considers the flaw in her deductive reason, then snaps her fingers, her eyes bright. “Oh my god. Clarke. No way. Can it be? Are you…? Do you…?”

“What???” Clarke stares at the engineer incredulously, “Am I do I what??”

“Ohhhh. Babygirl, you dooooo. Clarke. You’ve got a crush on someone, don’t you?”

“I- No I don’t! Why would you think- assume that I- That’s ridiculous. You’re being ridiculous.”

“And your entire face tells me that you’re being evasive and that I’m right. Who is it? Is it that cutie at the coffee shop? Wait wait. The one at the library. Library dude! Is it…” She regards Clarke with her brown eyes.

“It’s a… It’s a COWORKER. Shut. Up. Shutup. It is, isn’t it?” She laughs loudly, giving the artist a hearty shove. “What’re they like?”

“Well for starters they don’t exist-” Clarke breaks off when she sees Raven glare at her skeptically. She sighs defeatedly.

“Her name is Lexa Woods-”

“Hot.”

Clarke shoots her a look and she raises her hands defensively.

“My bad. Continue.” The artist rolls her eyes and the engineer grins.

“She’s a teacher at Arkeda. Trigedasleng. And that’s pretty much all I know. But Raven. She’s… Something else. She’s gorgeous. All elegance and suits and legs for days,” she groans, staring into her coffee mug.

“This her?” Raven turns her phone screen toward Clarke, showcasing a Facebook profile for one Lexa Woods.

“Raven!”

“Ah, so it IS her. I was right, she is hot. Tough case to crack, though. Her privacy settings are seriously locked-down. Hold on a second, I know her. Well not Lexa, but I know this person. She owns that bar I go to.”

“Which one,” Clarke remarks sarcastically.

“You wanna know or not?”

“...fine. Is she dating her? Does she have a partner? What?”

“Damn you’re so thirsty. I think they’re buddies. No- sisters of some sort.”

“Oh- okay. That’s. Nice to know.” Clarke tries to mask her smile with a large sip of coffee.

“So when are you asking her out?” Clarke spits her coffee across the table, narrowly missing her friend.

“Hey, watch it!”

“Uuugghh…” She swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand. “This coffee is so disgustingly sweet, what the fuck?”

“Yeah congrats, heart-eyes, you created that monstrous concoction while spacing out over Lex. So. When you gonna ask her out?”

“No! I- We’ve barely talked, and Raven, she’s my coworker. That’d just make things weird. She might not even be into women.”

“She wears suits more expensive than your grocery bill. For the month. Yours might be a little rusty, but my gaydar’s ringing off the hook. Besides, that’s never stopped you before. You’ve helped more than one girl ‘discover her sexuality.’ What’s the hesitation?”

“...Come one, Rey,” Clarke murmurs, “You saw her profile pic. She’s out of my league.”

Raven’s eyebrows nearly fly off her face. “Out. OF. Your. LEAGUE? Now that is one for the books.”

“Quit it, tech-head. You may be irresistible to infinity and beyond, but we mortals have insecurities, okay?” She’s avoiding Raven’s eyes and the engineer’s face softens into an understanding expression.

“...hey,” She pokes gently at Clarke, and the artist smiles slightly, “You wanna go play a round of paintball? That usually puts a spring in your step.”

Clarke laughs, shaking her head. “Okay, enough touchy feely drama for today. I’m gonna kick your ass. Loser buys donuts.”

“You’re on, Griffin,” Raven beams at her best friend. “Don’t hate me later when you’re dishing out cash for jelly-filled.”

***

“You’re obsessing, kid.” Anya’s words break the quiet lull in the bar. She’s closed up early for the day and is wiping down the counter. Lexa tilts her glass, watching the last drops of amber liquid slide from one side to the other.

“To the point as always, Anya.”

“You ran into them once and I can FEEL that you’ve been trying to again ever since. Look, why don’t you stop creeping around, get your shit together and just walk into their classroom and talk to them?”

“It is not that simple, I haven’t seen them since then, much less talked to them.” The teacher’s brow knits, thinking back to their one awkward encounter.

“Then you walk in there and you see them. Then you talk to them. What’s the big fucking deal?”

“I don’t know which classroom they teach in-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake-”

“-Language, Anya-”

“-Can it, sis.” The bartender cuts her off. “Just go talk to them. It can’t be that hard to figure out. You’re a fucking catch, they have to have noticed you. So stop it. You’re being a pussy. And not the kind that you’re into.”

“How is it that you manage to fit such crude wording into even your compliments?”

“Can’t change my nature, Lex. Just take my advice. Go get your fucking person.”

“I don’t even know their name!”

“Then fucking FIND OUT, nerd. Now get out, I don’t need you moping around my bar if you’re gonna waste your time pining instead of getting some.”

Lexa chuckles, gathering her coat. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.”

Anya grabs her arm. “Hey. You know I think you deserve the world. You work harder than anyone. Just gotta try a little more when it comes to your personal stuff. Go get it. Love you, idiot.”

Lexa smiles affectionately at the tough-love bartender. “I love you too, Anya.”

***

Clarke takes a deep breath. The door is open and she peeks into the small lecture hall, rapping her knuckles timidly on the smooth wood.

“Lexa?” She winces. _Stupid. Stupid! Using her first name? How am I supposed to have known that?_ She bites her lip, then lets out a sigh of relief, possibly disappointment. The room is empty, the Trigedasleng teacher nowhere to be found.

Clarke runs a hand through her hair, chewing her lip as she considers what to do next. It had taken her a full week to work up the courage to try and track down the elusive instructor. Niylah had finally caught her wandering the halls, sidling past classrooms, trying to sneak a look in to see if maybe Lexa was behind one of the many doors.

 _Honestly, Clarke, subtlety is so not your strong suit_ , Niylah had joked. _Seriously, if you’re looking to get in touch, I have her number_. Clarke had blanched at the suggestion, attesting that she was being enough of a creeper as-is and Niylah just shrugged. _Offer’s on the table, Clarke_.

Now Clarke sits in front of the school with her pile of art supplies, waiting for Niylah. Clarke's old bike is fairly unreliable these days and the shop has been slow to receive and tune up her new one. It’s taking longer than expected and Clarke hasn't been willing to risk a reputation of perpetual tardiness, so Niylah’s been the artist’s ride home almost every day for a week now. 

Raven is still miffed that Clarke didn’t take the bike to her first. _What. The HELL, Griffin. I could’ve patched it up in a day_. Clarke had laughed at her friend, _Yeah and added a rocket to it in the meantime_. She still hadn’t forgotten the toaster incident that left her with a terrifying sparking mess that somehow continues to make excellent toast and simultaneously powers her coffee grinder. For the bike, she just needs her bike back. Maybe with a new seat. Not an electric engine that propels her faster than half the cars on the road.

“Hey, Clarke. Didn’t think you’d be out so… On-time,” Niylah smiles warmly at the blonde, helping her up, then zips up her leather jacket. “Ready to rock?”

Clarke grins. “Always. I wasn’t kidding, I need one of those bad boys. Who knew I’d love motorcycles so much?”

So they strap her supplies to the bike and pull onto the road with a mechanical growl that still gets Clarke’s adrenalin spiking even after a week.

***

Lexa has been pacing in the lecture hall for fifteen minutes. Her classes are done for the day, as are the rest of the instructors’, she knows. She twists the long fingers of her right hand, not sure what she’s waiting for, if she’s waiting or stalling.

Finally, she picks up her briefcase and walks out, leaving the room’s door propped open. Anya’s words echo in her mind, _try a little more_ , and Lexa finds her feet taking her in the direction of the art wing she last saw the blonde instructor heading towards.

Lexa is just passing her third empty classroom, attempting to act casual as she scans the space for any hint of the blue-eyes or brilliant smile she recalls. She nearly runs smack into the school’s principal as she turns to continue down the hall.

“Indra! Hello!” Lexa cringes internally as she greets the dark-skinned woman a little too enthusiastically.

“And hello to you as well, Lexa,” Indra looks amused, and she smiles at her rising star of an instructor. “You seem to be searching for something, can I help you? The art wing is an unusual choice for you.”

“I…” Lexa purses her lips, searching for an adequate excuse and ends up blurting out the truth, “I was looking for another instructor.”

“Do you know their name? Oh,” the realization dawns quickly on the principal, “I think you mean our latest addition, Miss Griffin. She is the new art instructor.”

“Yes!” Lexa is still a fraction too enthusiastic, but she can’t help it from bubbling over. “Blonde hair, pretty blue eyes?”

Indra raises her eyebrows at the Trigedasleng teacher and Lexa’s face instantly reverts to a more appropriately formal expression. However, her eyes give her girlish excitement away and Indra presses her lips together, tamping down a smile. Lexa clears her throat.

“I-I missed her introduction and never got the chance to officially introduce myself. I thought I might take the time to say hello?” Her sentence ends on an uncertain, questioning note. It’s apprehensive, as if she is requesting Indra’s permission, and the principal almost rolls her eyes at how young and sweet Lexa can be at times despite her ridiculously mature approach to life.

“I believe she is the one you described. You can usually find her teaching in the art wing on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Depending on her schedule, there are other times she comes to the campus, but those are the most regular. Her office hours are on Fridays.”

“Thank you, Indra. I will be sure to stop by at an appropriate time to properly acquaint myself with her.”

“Of course, Lexa. I’m certain you two will get along famously.”

Turning to leave, Lexa can feel her face beginning to flush. Thinking back, she can’t quite be sure, but it’s possible that Indra gave her a wink before continuing on her way.

***

“‘Kay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Lincoln’s bringing cupcakes, remember?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Have you tried his baking before? Talk about a guy being the whole package.” Clarke fans herself, faking a dramatic swoon.

Niylah chuckles, starting to put her helmet back on and then-

“Niylah?” The science teacher pauses, putting the helmet down to arch an eyebrow at Clarke, who’s now shiftily avoiding her eyes.

“I- um. A-about the faculty phone numbers…” Niylah’s face splits into a grin, “I figure it wouldn’t hurt to…”

Clarke’s phone dings and she looks to find that Niylah has already texted her.

“That’s Lexa’s number. Remember, handle with caution. It could lead to some explosive chemistry,” She bursts out laughing at her own joke, then pulls on her helmet. It’s muffled but Clarke is certain she’s still laughing as she speeds off, leaving the artist standing in front of her house, phone in hand.

She stares down at the screen, at the set of numbers that now connect her to the woman she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about since she first laid eyes on her.

 _Thank you, Niylah_ , she mouths gratefully, holding her phone to her lips then the sky in a mock-salute before heading inside.

***

Lexa is lounging at home, enjoying a cup of earl grey tea and scrolling through landscape photos on the travel blogs she checks frequently when her phone buzzes. Without looking at the screen, she unlocks it, anticipating an email notification or a selfie Anya’s sent from the bar with her favorite regulars.

 **Unknown [8:04 PM]**  
Hi, is this Lexa?

Lexa contemplates the new number for a few seconds before curiosity overcomes her. She types out a reply and takes another sip of tea, waiting for a reply.

 **Lexa [8:05 PM]**  
This is she. Do I know you?

The answer comes almost instantly and Lexa nearly drops her mug.

 **Unknown [8:05 PM]**  
Oh, great! My name’s Clarke, I’m the new art teacher at Arkeda. We kind of… ran into each other last week

Lexa freezes up for a solid two minutes, unsure of how to respond. Anya’s voice kicks in, _Nut up, kid, you’re wasting time_ , and she starts typing. She deletes the message three times before sending it

 **Lexa [8:08 PM]**  
I do seem to recall rather clumsily stumbling into you. My apologies again for that unfortunate incident. To what do I owe the pleasure of this exchange?

Lexa creates a new contact with the number. Clarke Griffin. She tries out the name and finds that she likes the way her name rolls off her tongue.

 **Clarke [8:10 PM]**  
I asked Niylah for your number

Lexa’s breath gets caught in her throat. _Why would she-?_

 **Clarke [8:10 PM]**  
Thought it’d be good to know everyone on team Arkeda, you know?

_Of course. Calm down, Lexa. You’re reading too much into this._

**Lexa [8:11 PM]**  
I see. Networking always pays off. Are you enjoying teaching so far?

 **Clarke [8:13 PM]**  
I am! The kids are all so great, there’s such a love of learning here. I feel like I missed out on that back when I was in school so it’s a ton of fun to be a part of now. I hear you teach Trigedasleng?

 **Lexa [8:15 PM]**  
I am glad to hear that. Teaching is not suited to everyone, but it can be very rewarding. Yes, I do teach Trigedasleng. Language has always been my first love. I find something special in the way it connects us as people and how we express what we wish others could understand.

 **Clarke [8:16 PM]**  
That’s amazing! How is Trigedasleng different than English- What is it, Gonnaslang?

 **Lexa [8:17 PM]**  
That is very close! It is Gonasleng, meaning the language of warriors. It is a derivative of the words ‘gunner’ and sleng coming from English’s ‘slang.’ Trigedasleng has a long history that parallels English due to its development in wartime as an efficient way to communicate without enemies understanding what was being said. It is built for efficiency and due to that and its lack of gendered pronouns it has maintained a good deal of popularity even now.

 **Clarke [8:19 PM]**  
Wow, this is incredible! Wait, tell me more, how do pronouns work in Trigedasleng?

Lexa chuckles to herself and settles in more fully, pulling up a blanket before starting to formulate her next message.

***

Clarke was nervous. Jittery, butterflies-in-her-stomach, sweaty palms, the works. She must have composed her first message about a dozen too many times and eventually she just ended up with “Hi, is this Lexa?”

She hesitated, her thumb hovering over the send button before finally tapping it. She nearly squealed and threw her phone into the couch cushions, feeling like her teenage self crushing on the girl in her geometry class.

Thirty seconds passed and she crept over to check. Her face fell when she saw that there was no reply. _Breathe. It’s barely been a minute. Just-_

Her phone lit up.

Initially taken aback by the formality of Lexa’s texts, Clarke persisted, and it’s looking like it’s paying off. Lexa’s style is consistently formal, and Clarke finds herself charmed by it, but she can tell that the Trigedasleng teacher is loosening up, enthusiastically explaining the language she loves and its origins.

There’s a familiar flutter of excitement in the artist’s chest that comes with connecting with a person so quickly, and she finds herself outright grinning at the screen more than a few times. The banter is comfortable, almost like reconnecting with someone she already knows inside and out than discovering what makes a stranger who they are.

They continue on like this, cultivating an easy back a forth that wears long into the night. They only break briefly for Clarke to throw together a late dinner, and by the time it registers how late it is, the clock reads 2:12 AM.

 **Clarke [2:13 AM]**  
Oh my god, Lexa

 **Lexa [2:14 AM]**  
Yes, Clarke?

 **Clarke [2:14 AM]**  
Look at the time

 **Lexa [2:15 AM]**  
Oh. I did not realize it was getting so late, do you have plans for tomorrow?

Clarke’s heart skips a beat. _Is she asking her out?_

 **Clarke [2:16 AM]**  
No, do you?

 **Lexa [2:17 AM]**  
No, thank goodness. I do believe we will be sleeping in tomorrow, given the current time.

Clarke lets out a breath. _I guess not._

 **Clarke [2:19 AM]**  
Haha, you’re probably right. I’m not a morning person, so sleeping in for me means early afternoon

 **Lexa [2:20 AM]**  
We ought to get some rest now, but I do hope we might continue our conversation, Clarke.

 **Clarke [2:21 AM]**  
Yeah, totally! I’ll talk to you tomorrow whenever I can drag myself out of bed… ’Night, Lex!

 **Lexa [2:21 AM]**  
Good night, Clarke. It has been lovely talking with you.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look at that. There it is. Why did I use so many italics? No one knows!
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying the ride!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have officially dubbed this Shower Chapter. Have fun, you guys
> 
> As per faithtastic (femininechaos.tumblr.com)'s suggestion, this chapter has a warning:
> 
> Hydrate before reading.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. Check out faithtastic's fics if you haven't and you enjoy classy smut. It's filthy. And amazing

Steam clouds Arkeda’s locker room when Lexa opens the door, accompanied by the sound of water running in one of the showers. Odd, she thinks. It is usually empty by this time, and she knows Lincoln will be locking it up soon enough.

Sometimes she’ll come down to the gym in the evening if she needs to clear her mind or unwind from the day’s frustrations, and Lincoln will join her or at least keep the gym open long enough for her to get a decent workout. If she asks nicely, (maybe bribes him with a toffee almond swirl cookie from that bakery in midtown he adores) he’ll stay late to give her pointers on technique and optimizing muscle strength.

Tonight, however, she’s merely searching for her reading glasses. Lexa doesn’t recall why she decided to bring them with her for her workout, or why she chose to remove them from the safe confines of her shirt pocket. But at this point in time, they are missing and she is fairly certain that she has retraced her steps everywhere else, so they must be in here.

Lexa softens her footfalls on the concrete floor, hoping make her presence as unobtrusive as possible for the shower’s occupant. She is just checking underneath one of the many wooden benches when she hears it.

It’s quiet at first, starting out low, simply humming a tune. Eventually it progresses, blooming into the lyrics of a familiar melody sung by a sweet, husky, feminine voice.

_I got my ticket for the long way ‘round  
Two bottles of whiskey for the way…_

Lexa freezes, completely abandoning her task to listen. The song is sung with a slow, sultry, bluesy edge makes her skin prickle, raising goosebumps along her arms. 

_And I sure would like some sweet company  
And I’m leaving tomorrow, what do you say?_

She’s always loved the song’s sentiment, but can never seem to find a singer that expresses the sense of wonder and longing in travel that she connects to.

_When I’m gone... when I’m gone  
You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_

But this singer. This singer is something else entirely. The dark-haired instructor almost stops breathing.

 _You’re gonna miss me by my hair_  
_You’re gonna miss me everywhere_  
_Oh you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_

The singer croons, and Lexa inhales sharply, enchanted by the intimacy and rawness of this impromptu private concert.

 _When I’m gone… when I’m gone_  
_You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_  
_You’re gonna miss me by my walk_ ,  
_you’re gonna miss me by my talk_  
_Oh you’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_

The tone is light, but with an undercurrent of wistfulness that tugs at a place in Lexa’s that yearns for the freedom of the open road and destinations yet unplanned.

_Oh I’ve got my ticket for the long way ‘round  
The one with the prettiest of views_

There’s something about the quality of the singer’s voice. It may be a fluke, but it touches Lexa in a very personal way. And perhaps for the first time, she’s imagining someone by her side through all of her frequently dreamt-of travels.

 _It’s got mountains, it’s got rivers_  
_It’s got sights to give you shivers_  
_But it sure would be prettier with you_

The chorus is repeated once more and still Lexa has not moved, frozen by her reverence.

 _When I’m gone… when I’m gone_  
_You’re gonna miss me when I’m gone_  
_You’re gonna miss me by my walk_ ,  
_you’re gonna miss me by my talk_  
_Yeah you’re sure gonna miss me when I’m gone_

Then it is silent, the last note ringing out within the shower’s tiled walls. It slowly fades into the background of running water and Lexa is left wordlessly begging for an encore.

As the seconds wear on, Lexa realizes with a jolt that she’s been standing in a locker room devoid of people aside from herself and the owner of the voice. Who is showering.

Taking a cursory look around for her glasses, she panics when she hears the squeak of the water valve being shut off. In the sudden quiet, Lexa makes the hasty decision that her reading glasses can go unattended for another night wherever they may be in the locker room. She feels like such a creep trying desperately to make her getaway, weaving her way through rows of lockers toward the exit.

She hears the faint sound of footsteps as she closes the door with an almost imperceptible click and gusts out a sigh of relief. Standing up, she straightens her tie self-consciously and walks down the hall, away from the locker room. 

She’s both relieved and slightly disappointed, and she wishes she could have known who the voice belonged to. Under different circumstances, perhaps. She smiles at the memory of the stranger’s lovely voice. She shoves her hands into her pockets and there’s a new spring in her step as she makes her way home, humming happily under her breath.

***

It’s been a long day for Clarke. She’s handling her classes well and the students all love her already despite only seeing her once or twice a week for a little over a month. She keeps the atmosphere light but open to communication in any form and the assignments are fun and challenging, stretching the students’ creative perceptions.

Teaching comes naturally to Clarke and she is pleasantly surprised. She feels very connected to these students, empathizing with the confusion they face during this time in their lives, and their desire to create and express themselves.

Today has just been long though. It was a nice morning and Clarke had decided to hazard a commute on her old bike. But as fate would have it, the weathered chain on the trusty, if worn mode of transportation she’s had since college finally gave out on the way to work. It’s not a big deal, she’ll head into town this weekend and pick up her new bike which the shop finally got around to ordering, but it was unquestionably inconvenient. If Niylah hadn’t been passing by on her motorcycle, Clarke would have been late for her first class. She’s still not sure how they managed to deconstruct and strap her bike to the motorcycle, but it worked out somehow.

Until a few weeks ago, Clarke had never ridden a motorcycle before, but clinging to Niylah with the wind rushing past, she felt absolutely exhilarated. I’VE GOTTA GET ONE OF THESE, she shouted into the wind next to Niylah’s ear. _I FEEL SO BADASS!! I COULD SHOOT FUCKING ZOMBIES IN THE FACE!!!!!_ The STEM teacher laughed, responding that she knew it would be Clarke’s style, _BUT YOU NEED MORE LEATHER TO GO WITH IT_.

Between the unexpected commute circumstances, a horrifying lack of coffee due to the break room’s new coffee machine having yet to arrive and five advising sessions that consisted mainly of chatting with her favorite students, Clarke is spent.

She can't help but be pleased with the small following she's acquired as a new instructor. Niylah has begun passing around the name Skaikru for Clarke's band of devoted students since the first two weeks were spent painting and drawing exclusively sky and space-related subjects. Since then, the group has adopted it as their trademark aesthetic, much to Raven’s delight when Clarke told her.

Clarke is gathering her belongings from the classroom at the end of the day. Lincoln has kindly agreed to drive Clarke and her broken-down bike home, but she has to wait until he finishes his rounds on campus and closes down the gym and adjoining locker room.

She's just trying to figure out how to spend the remaining half and hour when it hits her. _The locker rooms_. The locker rooms have showers. In her haste to get out of the house this morning after snoozing her third alarm one too many times, she only managed to apply some deodorant before sprinting out the door. Clarke grabs her coat and belongings and heads for the locker rooms.

Shoving her many items into several lockers, Clarke walks to the showering area, grabbing a towel on her way in. She strips comfortably in the empty room, casually tossing aside her stripey v-neck tee and almost falling as she hops around on one foot, the other stuck in her grey skinny jeans. Once matching bra and panties hit the floor, Clarke is in the shower, shivering as the first cold spray hits her naked form.

The water heats up quickly and a shudder of pure pleasure wracks her body. Sometimes in the middle of an artistic bender, Clarke forgets how amazing a hot shower feels, completely forgoing the privilege to eke out more time for her creative process.

But this is heaven. Clarke basks in the way the water skims over her every curve and produces a billowing cloud of steam as it hits the colder air. She scratches her nails across her scalp, running her fingers through water-darkened hair. Letting out a soft sigh, she hums her appreciation and soon enough the low vibration adopts a melody.

Clarke loves singing in the shower, loves singing in general, really. She'll pick up the guitar gifted to her by her dad sometimes, and she's been told she's quite good, performance-level even. Whatever the case may be, she does it for her own pleasure and she’s never been one to turn down a request from the girls for a karaoke night.

It's been a while, so she goes with a familiar tune and before long, the words spill past her lips in a bluesy rendition that matches the indulgently slow pace set by her movements in the shower.

She gains confidence as she goes on, her voice swelling to fill the dreamy, steam-cloaked space.

The song always strikes a chord with her, belying her love of good company and the open road. She hasn't been missing travel so much since she started teaching, but she wouldn't mind a good roadtrip with the right people. Maybe one person in particular, if they could get to know each other a little better…

The melody overtakes her, but it's always for such a short time, the song running out before the sentiment. As the last note echoes off the blank walls, Clarke is left feeling satisfied and refreshed.

Shutting the water off, Clarke takes her time drying herself. She's just getting dressed, leaning down to lace her converse, when she cocks her head to listen. For a second she thinks she hears footsteps. Is it possible her one-song concert had an audience?

She pauses, then finishes tying the shoelace and walks out to retrieve her things. She swears she can almost hear the locker room door shutting, but it's so quiet she has to dismiss it.

Shaking her head, Clarke grins at herself. Probably just the lack of coffee affecting her.

“Time get you home,” she tells herself, and walks out to wait by Lincoln's car in the parking lot, humming to herself.

***

 _1-2-3_.

 _1-2-3-4_.

 _1-1-2_.

Muscles taut, Lexa’s wrapped knuckles meet their mark with speed and precision. She’s been in the mostly empty gym for an hour and forty-two minutes now. Having warmed up with stretches and a couple of laps around the outdoor track first, she is focusing on her kickboxing technique today, interspersed with sets of situps and pullups.

It is far from her most ambitious routine, but she is not in the mood for such a rigorous workout. But Lexa’s style of training ensures that even this so-called relaxed session has beads of sweat gathering at her temples. One will occasionally break away to roll down her face, and it’s not until she gets another rep or two in before she wipes at the trail with the back of her hand.

 _3-1-2_.

The weighted punching bag shudders under the unrelenting rain of blows. A final solid thud rings out- the sound of Lexa’s foot meeting the canvas surface in a flawless round-house kick. She returns to her resting stance, then relaxes to steady the swinging target.

Her breathing is heavy as she walks to the mat’s edge to retrieve a small white towel and bottle of water, taking a swig of the cool liquid. Wiping her face with the towel, she begins to walk towards the locker room. It’s been a satisfying workout, but she can use a hot shower and some time to unwind with her book and a glass of iced tea.

***

Okay, to be perfectly honest, it’s been a while since Clarke worked out consistently. She’s started a few times with good intentions, going jogging with Niylah or Octavia, even getting coached by Lincoln once. It’s just that life has a way of getting in the way. A lot. Between her late-night bouts of inspiration and jetlag between flights from Tokyo to Paris, the artist can hardly spare the energy to maintain her hair hygiene, let alone a full-blown workout routine.

She’s not terribly out of shape, and besides she’s spent too damn long learning to love her body to let anyone tell her what she should do with it. She loves her curves and so have any friends and lovers worth her time.

But there are days that she wakes up feeling groggy and gross and sometimes her period cramps are just so awful, she thinks maybe some exercise wouldn’t hurt. So when she finds out that Arkeda provides the students and faculty with a decked-out gym, she decides it’s time to go for gold.

And this is how she finds herself stubbornly jogging on a treadmill for the first time since college. On a Sunday morning, no less.

It’s been almost forty-five minutes and Clarke is embarrassingly red in the face. Tomato red. Healthy, ripe tomatoes. Of the fire-roasted variety. Her get-psyched playlist is running out of magic and her legs are protesting heartily at their sudden re-introduction to a level of activity higher than a brisk walk downtown. She really should’ve stretched before she started. Who knew.

 _Maybe that’s enough for today_ , she thinks. _Also maybe I’ll just go pass out in the shower now_.

She presses the stop button and slows her jog to a standstill. Bent at the waist and hands gripping the bars, she takes a minute to catch her breath and stare blankly at the floor. She straightens up too quickly and black dots cloud her vision for a second.

“Whoa. Okay. Okay taking it slow. I got this.”

She takes several large gulps of water from her bottle and heads towards the locker rooms feeling slightly beat up, but victorious nonetheless.

***

Lexa heads to the back of the locker room to claim her stall. She prefers showering here since it’s furthest from the door. Lexa jiggles the lock on the shower door. It’s a little faulty, they’re getting Monty to fix it on Tuesday when he comes in for his shop class, but for now she thinks it’ll hold. There aren’t too many others around to disrupt her, anyway.

She takes a towel from the neatly-stacked pile near the entrance and walks back to get undressed. Her shorts come off easily, only sticking to her thighs slightly. She peels her tank top off with more difficulty, the tight garment clinging to her sweat-coated skin. Lexa’s bra and boyshorts are the last to go and she drops them onto the pile. A hot shower is just what she needs right now.

***

Clarke’s got to give herself some credit. Despite her lack of preparation, she actually got herself to the gym and exercising. As a bonus, she doesn’t look half bad even after the workout. Her hair is held back in a casual ponytail with a couple of hair clips hold her loose hairs to the side, only a few wisps of golden hair frame her face. The tomato-red has subsided to a healthy flush, and her eyes are bright and clear.

Aside from the slight rime of sweat that’s drying on her skin and the slight wobble in her legs, Clarke feels pretty good. But she could really use a shower. She pulls her t-shirt over her head and lets it hang from her hand, enjoying the feeling of cool air on her overheated skin. She walks to the shower at the end of the row, wanting a little privacy, and pulls the door open and steps inside.

***

“Oh my god!”

“Shit!” Clarke yelps, quickly shielding her eyes. “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Lexa hurriedly gathers her towel around her, turning to face the wall. She has to sort of hold it in place since it’s only wrapped around her backside and over her chest in a twisting s-curve.

“Jesus, I’m so sorry, I thought this stall-”

“The lock is broken, I should’ve-”

They start simultaneously then stop short to let the other finish. An awkward silence stretches between the two women. That unnerving lack of interaction is dissolved when Lexa lets out an unexpected giggle. Clarke almost looks up, but catches herself, once again covering her eyes.

“It’s okay, really. I just hope I didn’t startle you. It must be unpleasant finding a naked coworker in what you thought was an empty shower.”

 _Far from it_ , Clarke’s mind leers before she can filter the thought. She shakes her head, still holding her white shirt to her eyes, “No I’m sorry, I should have knocked or something. We always seem to meet in the weirdest ways.”

Lexa’s cheeks are pink, but she’s smiling shyly. She doesn’t know what compels the action, but she finds herself telling Clarke, “You can look, it’s okay. There’s nothing much to see.”

Clarke slowly removes her hand from her face and tries not to objectify the gorgeous woman standing before her, but fails miserably. Her gaze rakes up the brunette’s somewhat-covered body, over her long legs and finely sculpted muscles, finally coming to rest on the woman’s flushed face.

The artist tries a confident smile and ends up with more of an embarrassed half-smirk. The color of Lexa’s cheeks deepen slightly and her grip on the towel loosens just a fraction, the soft material folding to reveal the subtle slope of her breasts, stopping just short of where she can feel her nipples hardening- from the cold, presumably.

It is certainly not a reaction triggered by the surprising heat in the blonde woman’s eyes, or the fact that she’s wearing only a sports bra which does a marvelous job of showing off her abundant cleavage. Lexa’s eyes snap up to meet Clarke’s and she stifles an uncomfortable laugh.

“I-,” The Trigedasleng instructor begins.

She shifts, meaning to take a step toward Clarke. The hand holding the towel to her thigh is unconsciously gripping a little too hard, and the movement wrenches the white fabric from the hand pressed to her chest.

Clarke blanches, smacking herself squarely in the face with the white t-shirt as she attempts to avert her eyes.

“OKAY,” Clarke can’t tell whether or not she’s shouting over the noise of her pulse pounding. Her head is spinning, “I think it’s time for me to go. I am so, so sorry. I thought- I didn’t…”

She keeps rambling, spouting further apologies as she fumbles around trying to find the door’s handle while keeping her eyes covered and Lexa really shouldn’t, but she finds the whole thing endearing.

Clarke manages to find the handle and tugs desperately at it, but the faulty lock has chosen this most unfortunate moment to work. And it’s working all together too well, jamming the door shut.

Gathering up her towel, Lexa makes her way over to the struggling artist who still insists on keeping one hand clamped firmly over her eyes.

“Let me help,” Clarke feels Lexa’s breath on her neck and the warmth of her body radiates in the spaces between them. The brunette comes up behind her, their hands touching as she twists at the lock, rattling it gently. Clarke is stiff, her breathing shallow, and she makes the mistake of inhaling through her nose. Lexa smells of clean sweat with an earthy undertone, maybe sage or sweet grass, that reminds Clarke of wind-tousled hair and warm nights cloaking bright stars. There are traces of a subtly fragrant shampoo and the artist has the terrible urge to crowd closer to her and let her scent surround Clarke further.

Lexa feels giddy, almost making skin-to-skin contact with the beautiful blonde instructor she stands behind. Normally deliberate and conscientious in her interactions, there’s something about Clarke that has her feeling reckless. She’s definitely pushing the limits of proper social conduct, but she figures propriety went out the window as soon as Clarke walked into the shower.

Lexa’s breast grazes the side of Clarke’s arm and the artist’s heart stutters in her chest. She hopes Lexa is too distracted with the lock to hear her audibly swallow back the tension that’s building in her at their close proximity.

Lexa keeps getting distracted. She gets the feeling she could have fixed the lock issue by now, but the dark-haired instructor has made the godawful decision to position herself inches away from possibly the most gorgeous woman she’s ever laid eyes on. Lexa can see the faint sheen of sweat on Clarke’s skin and can smell the irresistible mixture of something soft and sweet and floral, with the sharper bite of ginger and a musky scent that Lexa can’t pinpoint but is driving her wild.

So distracted might be a bit of an understatement. Her breast brushes Clarke’s arm and the peaks of her nipples harden almost painfully at the accidental contact. She’s starting to doubt that it’s the cold air that’s affecting her physical state. Lexa bites the inside of her cheek, preventing what may have come out as a slightly inappropriate sound. She decides maybe she could stand to stop torturing herself and actually get the lock unjammed.

One hand is clinging to her towel, but Lexa soon abandons that endeavor to devote all her attention to the stubborn lock, letting the towel slip to the floor unattended. She mumbles an apology and continues to tug at the fixture, not noticing Clarke’s now slightly erratic breathing.

Clarke can feel her whole body flush in the moment when Lexa's towel slides to the floor. She can't discern whether the sudden heat is an extension of the warmth exuded by the green-eyed woman's now entirely bare skin or the result of her hyper awareness of the press of Lexa's naked form against her.

Every muscle in her neck and jaw is straining in an effort to clamp down around the nonsense train of thoughts and words that threaten to spill out. At this point Lexa's so close all she can smell is her skin and the heady combination of that and the light pressure of their bodies rubbing together has effectively vacated Clarke's mind of any and all coherent thoughts.

Lexa's brow is furrowed more than any level of concentration can justify. She can't seem to make her fingers work properly to unjam the lock and Clarke is so close and god why can't she seem to breathe normally? Lexa pushes closer to increase her leverage on the lock and for a second their bodies slide together, skin on skin, and their curves fit together so perfectly that she swears her heart comes to a dead stop. Her hand jerks violently, an unintentional reaction to that unexpected physical sensation, and the lock pops open.

“There we are,” Lexa braces herself for the nervous squeak in her voice, but it comes out deep and with surprising rough edge. She clears her throat and straightens up, lifting her arm up over Clarke to take a step back. But just then, Clarke raises her head and somehow catches her hair tie on the clasp of Lexa’s waterproof watch.

“Oh god, okay. Clarke, hold still. Wait- ah,” Lexa stumbles, trying not to tug at the tie, but much to her horror it pulls, snapping and letting Clarke’s hair spill down over her shoulders. She has to admit, her hair looks great and soft to the touch, but _now is not the appropriate time for such thoughts Lexa you just destroyed her hair tie_.

“Clarke, I’m so so sorry-”

“Oh no, seriously it’s fine! That hair tie is super old, I’ve been waiting for it to give out since forever ago.” Clarke laughs and it sends a pleasant shiver up Lexa’s spine. She stoops to gather her towel, clutching it to her chest with one hand.

“I’m somewhat decent now, it’s okay. Here, let me…” Clarke finally uncovers her eyes and looks up just in time to see Lexa pull her own hair tie free, shaking her hair out in loose waves. She can’t believe it. It’s like one of those ridiculous slow motion romcom moments with the glossy, shiny lighting surrounding Lexa like a halo. She swallows hard and bites the inside of her lip.

“Here.” It takes her too long to figure out what’s happening, and Lexa has to insistently take her hand, placing her hair tie in the artist’s palm and folding her fingers securely over it.

“Oh… No, you don’t have to…”

“Clarke, you’re sweet. But I can’t have too many debts floating around, especially if they’re all owed to one person.”

“Okay, I accept,” Lexa smiles at Clarke’s words, “But ONLY because I’ve already made it awkward enough barging into your shower and should really leave right now.”

“Nice to see you again, Clarke,” Lexa giggles as Clarke exits the stall, and the blonde pauses just outside the doorway.

“Wait, what other debts do you owe me?”

“A cup of coffee, Clarke. For the first time we… ran into each other.”

Clarke licks her lips, smiling as she closes the door behind her. “I might just have to take you up on that, Lexa. Next time.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You made it through another chapter! Level up!
> 
> Did you catch that Super Subtle reference to lesbian subtext from a mainstream movie?  
> (hint: the really gay Bechloe shower scene in Pitch Perfect. Guess I gave you the the answer)
> 
> Also, they'll never see this, but quick shout-out to Dubcliq (find them on tumblr they're cool), who wrote the first fic I ever read with my own two eyes. It was Bechloe and it was beautiful. Thanks <3
> 
> And thanks you any of you who are following this fic. It means a lot


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Clarke and Raven this chapter. Plus mentions of Doctor Mech *wink wink*

Clarke’s had the canvas for years. She impulsively bought it years ago at an art store sale (along with several brushes, half a dozen pencils, eight tubes of paint and a new palette) when the owners decided to pack up and move to an adjacent city with lower rent. It is a large canvas, measuring five and a half feet tall and three feet wide, and Clarke never knew what to paint or even how to begin with such a large vacancy stretched before her. So it was transferred from one living space to the next, neutral and pristine.

But something about tumbling waves of chestnut hair, flashing green eyes and the wistfulness in an old-soul smile breaks something open in the artist. And one night, she begins to paint.

Something grabs ahold of her that night, the image that slips into her mind is so vivid that she is all but blind to anything else. She stands at her easel completely rapt, painting the night away, encircled by the pool of light shining from her battered old work lamp.

It reaches the early hours of the morning before the artist finally eases up enough to take a break, snapping the light switch off, dimming the room to a quiet grey. Clarke doesn’t even look at the painting. Stifling a yawn as she rubs at her cheek, she stoops awkwardly, rear meeting the wooden floor with an ungraceful bump. Blearily, she pushes loose strands of hair away from her face with her arm. She recognizes somewhere in the back of her mind that she has paint coating her hands and might not want that on her face and in her hair, but forgetfully abandons her endeavour a moment later to smear paint from the underside of her eye to the corner of her face in an attempt to wipe her exhaustion away.

She sprawls across the cold wooden slats as if they are the most luxurious feather bed she’s ever dreamed of. _I’ll just take a little rest_ , she thinks.

And that’s how Raven finds her the next morning.

Blonde hair spilling every which-way, Clarke is stretched into an uncomfortable position with one leg crumpled under the other, and arm flung out as she tries to cushion her head from the unforgiving floor. She has paint on almost every available surface, including her face, neck, elbows, shirt and... _the backs of her knees?? How does she get paint on her knees?_ Raven almost laughs out loud, but catches herself. Her expression is slightly scrunched in irritation at the light seeping in through the long curtains and her face is dotted with a few colorful droplets- chocolate covered sunflower seeds, the one pricier indulgence from her college days that she can now afford more easily as a successful artist.

The engineer snorts, of course she has them stuck to her face. It’s Clarke. She is quite a sight to behold, and Raven is sure to document the moment, along with a few certainly unwelcome selfies with the knocked-out artist.

She’s brought their usual Sunday morning supplies, a box of assorted pastries and two cups of coffee from a little cafe they’d discovered when they first moved to Arkadia three years ago. She smirks, draping a blanket over her friend, then sets about dividing up the baked goods and picking up around the studio. She isn’t particularly neat at home, but she and Clarke always look after one another that way, an unspoken agreement. Raven makes sure not to try and arrange the artist’s supplies, since Clarke has her own system, a kind of order in the chaos. Then she kneels by the artist to gently wake her up. She hesitates a little because of her brace, but she doesn’t want to just poke at Clarke with a spatula so she has to be a little closer. (Well she does. But she thinks that might not be the most well-received wakeup call.)

“Hey,” Raven gives the artist’s shoulder a gentle shake, and after the second time, Clarke cracks an eye at her. “Morning, princess. You feel like getting up off that floor?”

The blonde almost imperceptibly shakes her head _no_ , but Raven offers coffee and Clarke is suddenly on board. She struggles to stand, especially after discovering that half her limbs are asleep, she stumbles into Raven more than once nearly toppling them both to the ground. After several yelps of surprise, a prolonged bout of giggling and “Jesus fuck, Clarke, WHY in god’s name are you so friggin’ HEAVY??” they finally make it to the table where their coffees sit steaming into the morning air.

Clarke burns her tongue in her haste to get the much-needed caffeine into her system and Raven laughs at the face she makes. They sit in silence for a while while the coffee warms them and Clarke takes a large mouthful of apple turnover. A second later, Raven’s voice startles her into nearly choking on the flakey pastry.

“Some project, huh, blondie?” Raven’s sitting back on her stool, leaning against the edge of the table and she looks over at her paint-spattered friend lazily.

“Wha-”, Clarke coughs, downing several gulps of coffee.

“Oh come ON, Clarke.” The brunette performs a monumental eye roll, jerking her head toward the large canvas, “The painting. Big project? No? Doesn’t ring any bells?”

“Oh… Yeah. I guess so.”

“You guess? How long have you been working on that?”

“I started last night.”

“What?”

“I started around five, worked til around six in the morning, judging by the light.”

Raven is quiet for a minute, and Clarke fidgets, peeling a strip of paint off the table top.

“Huh. So you sure you’re not a thing?” Blue eyes meet brown and the engineer laughs, giving the artist a hearty shove.

“Dude. You’ve SO got it bad. I mean, painting her? You haven’t even painted me, no matter how many times I drop hints that I’m #modelstatus.” Raven’s eyes glint with amusement.

“Hey you’re a seriously talented artist, you’re great at painting people. But the thing is- you hate painting people. You’ve told me so many times that capturing people in a moment is one of the hardest things to do.” Clarke shifts in her seat, eyes on the pattern she’s scraping into the paper to-go cup with her nail. She’s definitely not blushing. Why would she be? Nope, not blushing in the slightest. “Your perfectionist ass can’t handle ‘not doing them justice’. So…?”

“What makes her special?”

Clarke bites her lip, her brow knitted as she tries to think of a plausible reason, kind of hoping Raven will miraculously drop the loaded question. But Raven sips her coffee and stares Clarke down, unrelenting, until the artist lets out an exasperated sigh.

“I don’t know, Rey. There’s just something about her.”

“Wow okay hon, I’m gonna need you to try a little harder.”

“I- You know that feeling where you get butterflies in your stomach and you have zero chill around attractive people?”

“I’m pretty smooth always, Griffin, but I get where you’re coming from. Go on.”

“Oh shut up. I remember what you were like when you were first crushing on my mom, you dumbass. You’re forever disgustingly charming, but you’d scream into pillows after she’d compliment your jeans or kiss your cheek. Idiot.”

Raven throws her head back, laughing. “Well, okay, Abby’s something else though. I’d never come across someone who’s such a complete package-”

“-Aaaas much as I don’t want to talk about what my deal is with Lexa, I just cannot handle you going all gushy about my mom right now.”

“Fine. You’ll get the powerpoint and photo montage later. But what IS your deal with Lexa? You get those butterflies around her?”

“Well… Yeah. I do. But there’s something else. I get nervous because she’s fucking gorgeous, but there’s also an overwhelming sense of… I don’t know, comfort? That I get just being around her. Something about her makes me better? I don’t know, I don’t know it sounds crazy. We barely even talk…” Clarke sets her coffee down and buries her face in her arms.

“Clarke. The very first time you two ever texted you ended up talking for six hours, 'til two in the morning. I wouldn't call that barely talking. And um. Not to be insensitive, or whatever, but please refresh my memory- why the fuck don’t you just ask her out?”

“Because she’s so…”, Clarke gestures vaguely at the painting, “And I’m so…” She looks down at the oversized, paint-stained button down she has on and sighs.

“I’m going to punch you now.”

“Wha- ow!”

“Get a grip, Griffin! It’s obvious you two have some sort of connection, why not explore that?”

“I don’t know that she feels even remotely the same way, I can’t go off a feeling like that. I wouldn’t want to jeopardize a potential friendship just because I have some schoolgirl crush on her and her big green eyes and dumb perfect face looking all dapper in her suits.”

“Wow, who’s gushing now?”

“I swear I’m so gay sometimes. Have you SEEN her in a suit??”

“Oh I have. She’s some kind of next-level handsome. But she’s not some perfect angel, you’re Clarke Griffin, no one’s out of your league. Except me. But I’m banging your mom.”

“Oh my god you’re the absolute worst.”

“I’m the best and you know it,” Raven can’t tamp down the grin that’s plastered across her face, “Okay what’s the harm of getting that cup of coffee with her? Worst case scenario it’s awkward and you decide maybe you don’t need a friend like her. Best case scenario… Who knows?”

“What if I’m lame? What if she isn’t interested? I painted a giant painting of her, Raven. Where do I go from there???”

“CO. FFEE. Co-ffee. It’s just coffee. Calm yourself, child. If I was this much of a wreck when I was crushing on your mom, I never would’ve asked for your blessing, much less actually asked her out. And there were so many more barriers to cross. She’s not someone’s mom. She’s just a coworker. A friend, maybe. Talk to her.”

“Okay fine. Fine! I’ll see if she wants to get coffee. Nothing more than that. Now let me die in peace, the caffeine’s wearing off and I only had a four hour coma before you came to torture me with your interrogation and pastry bribery.”

Raven’s laughter brightens the whole room.

~

Later, when Raven has left after finally convincing Clarke to shower and Clarke has taken a couple of naps, the artist stands in front of the large painting. She stares at her latest work in wonder, unsure that her hands could possibly have made something so nuanced. Clarke contemplates the brushstrokes, picking out tiny mistakes here and there, but gets caught up in the perfection of her subject.

Lexa is standing in what could be a throne room, but the background is faded by the wash of sunlight spilling in through high arched windows. Her back is facing the viewer. Her head is turned slightly, her profile lit by the sunlight, but no more than a glimpse. Her expression is calm, with a serious cast to it, but the distance in her eyes betrays the dreamy, almost lost undercurrent to its stoicism. She is wearing a long dress that hangs from her shoulders by thin straps, the back dipping nearly to the base of her spine and revealing the smooth, toned definition of relaxed muscle. A slit parts the flowing fabric up to her hip and shadows the curves of her bare leg. Her shoulders are rounded forward slightly, the tiniest amount of tension further outlining her arching shoulder blades. The fingers of her right hand hold a pen. They are relaxed, but practiced in their contemplative, purposeful grip. She clutches it delicately, as though it may well be an instrument of war, as much as one of expression.

Clarke lets out a slow breath and turns away.

That night, she sets the painting in a corner of her studio and covers it with a cloth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, guys, I'm kind of Doctor Mechanic trash. Blame it on @likebrightness.
> 
> What d'you think? Is Clarke in ridiculously deep yet? Is Raven an asshole and sweetheart at the same time?
> 
> Thanks for tuning in, cuties. See you next update <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa is a nerd. Clarke is an idiot. Niylah is scheming. Raven is so done. The students of Arkeda are bunch of trash shippers. Why are you still reading this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for Trigedasleng translations

It’s a slow day for Clarke. They’re doing one of their swap weeks. It’s a something they do every semester to get students and teachers alike interested in other fields of study. The swaps range from teacher observations, letting instructors sit in on other classes, to student-led interdisciplinary discussions. Today, most regular classes are being taught by instructors from another department. Clarke’s class is being taught by Harper, and the students are being treated to an activity-based astronomy lesson ending with a paint session of cosmic phenomena.

Tomorrow, Clarke is taking on one of Lincoln’s PE classes. Normally, Lincoln’s PE classes are difficult to hand off, having such large numbers of students make them an unpopular swap choice and often Niylah and Indra end up taking the classes mountain biking or swimming.

However, Clarke volunteered to take Lincoln’s students this semester, and she and Niylah will be schooling students in dodgeball.

The kids will be expecting the teachers to coach them, of course. What they won’t realize is that the end of the class will see twenty students at a time facing off against Clarke and Niylah. The top eight out of all four groups will participate in a final showdown, and the final three will receive extra credit and a free homework pass good for the rest of the semester.

Clarke smirks to herself, the smug expression stretching into a leisurely yawn. She scoops her phone off the desk and checks her messages. There are a few email notifications that she breezes through quickly, just some spam and a link from her mother to a website on easy healthy recipes. Then she swipes over to her texts and sees _eleven_ in rapid succession, all from Raven.

 **Bae-es [12:34 PM]**  
Hey you

 **Bae-es [12:34 PM]**  
Yeah you

 **Bae-es [12:34 PM]**  
What up

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
A stick

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
Up ur butt

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
Stop what you’re doing

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
Go talk to Professor Hot Stuff

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
Do it

 **Bae-es [12:35 PM]**  
Make out in her office or something

 **Bae-es [12:36 PM]**  
Or do that thing you do on dates where you actually like the person and squish your tits together so it looks like you have a butt on your chest

 **Bae-es [12:36 PM]**  
You gays are into that, right?

Clarke nearly spits out her coffee and suppresses a laugh, pressing the back of her hand to her lips.

 **art hoe [12:37 PM]**  
Don’t even act like you’re not bi as fuck, Reyes

 **Bae-es [12:37 PM]**  
True

 **Bae-es [12:38 PM]**  
I am hella gay sometimes…

 **art hoe [12:38 PM]**  
DON’t

 **Bae-es [12:38 PM]**  
gay 4 ur mom lol

 **art hoe [12:39 PM]**  
Jesus, Raven

 **Bae-es [12:39 PM]**  
That’s what your mom said in the shower last night

 **art hoe [12:40 PM]**  
TMI, ASSHOLE. REMEMBER YOUR BOUNDARIES

 **Bae-es [12:40 PM]**  
Lmao chill out, Griff, I’m joking

 **art hoe [12:41 PM]**  
Thank god

 **Bae-es [12:41 PM]**  
...probably

 **art hoe [12:42 PM]**  
RAVEN

 **Bae-es [12:42 PM]**  
Aaaanyywaaayyy

 **Bae-es [12:42 PM]**  
You’re gonna talk to Lexa today, right?

Clarke finds herself suddenly interested in straightening out her desk. It really is a mess, with papers stacked haphazardly, nearly spilling onto the floor. She really should get to tha- Her phone chimes insistently after a few minutes pass.

 **Bae-es [12:45 PM]**  
Riiiiiiight?

Clarke sighs, picking her phone up, and gnaws at her lip before sending her reply.

 **art hoe [12:45 PM]**  
yeah

 **Bae-es [12:46 PM]**  
Wow. Wordy, much?

 **Bae-es [12:46 PM]**  
But hey. You go, girl. Sweep her off her feet. You got this. I’ll buy you a chocolate milkshake later and you can spill the deets so I can update your mom

 **art hoe [12:47 PM]**  
Thanks, Raven, you’re the best

 **Bae-es [12:48 PM]**  
You got it, babe

 **art hoe [12:48 PM]**  
Wait. You’ve been telling my mom about my crush?

 **Bae-es [12:49 PM}**  
Would you look at the time, I should get going. See ya, honeybuns

 **art hoe [12:50 PM]**  
RAVEN

The art instructor stares at the screen for a while, but by the time five minutes pass, she knows that Raven’s read her message and is probably cackling somewhere with no intention of answering. She chuckles, rolling her eyes and blows a stream of air out from between her lips.

Finally, she gets up and begins to shuffle through the papers on her desk, sorting them by classes and graded versus not graded work. She’s made her way through a third of the piles stacked on her desk when she hears a rap on her door a second before it opens.

Clarke looks up and Niylah sticks her head in through the doorway, flashing the a smile in greeting.

“Hey! You busy?”

Clarke looks down at the papers in her hands, at the slowly forming organization of her desk.

“I mean, sort of but honestly not really. Need something?”

“Yeah, actually, if you’re available right now that’d be great. Nyko was feeling sick and went home after Indra and then Lincoln bullied him into it because he’s a stubborn butt and refuses to take care of himself, I swear to god he needs to-”

“Oookaaay. I’m sorry Nyko’s under the weather, but how does this involve me?”

“Oh right, well he was scheduled to do a lecture sit-in today, but since he’s out I was hoping you could fill in instead? The lecture’s starting in a couple minutes.”

“Sure thing! Lemme just grab my bag.” Clarke reaches under her desk and asks over her shoulder, “Where’s it at?”

“Oh, close. We don’t have to run across campus or anything, it’s in the humanities department.”

“I’ve never done one before, is there protocol? Like, do I just sit silently and observe?” The artist shoulders her bag and pulls the door shut behind her before following Niylah down the hall.

Niylah can tell her friend is a little nervous and it makes her smile.

“It’s Arkeda. Our protocol is students first and love what you teach, you know that. We’re pretty laid back. Just go in. The instructor will introduce you in case there are students who don’t know you and then you sit and enjoy the instructor’s lecture. This one’s real passionate. You’re in for a treat.” Niylah smirks to herself, something that Clarke misses in her concern over classroom procedure.

“Should I be taking notes?” The artist begins rummaging worriedly through her things for a pad of paper, but finds mostly discarded receipts, stuffed into the bag with the intention of pulling together a better budgeting system.

The chemistry teacher laughs and Clarke looks up at her, eyebrows raised quizzically.

“Oh I don’t think you’ll be paying enough attention to the lecture to take notes, Clarke.”

The blonde takes a few quick steps, catching up to Niylah as they reach the humanities wing’s largest lecture room.

“Wait, what do you mean?”

Opening the door confidently, Niylah steps into the room and all eyes turn to her.

“I hope I didn’t interrupt, I wanted to catch you before you started the class. Nyko’s out sick today, so I swapped him for another pretty face.”

Stepping aside, she lets Clarke peek in timidly, entering the room. She smiles and gives the rows of students a small wave.

“Miss Griffin!”

“Hey, Clarke!”

“Guys she’s my favorite teacher, the one I told you about!”

“Look, it’s Miss Griffin!”

“Did you hear about her and-?”

“Wait, that’s her?”

A chorus of voices ripple to life across the room, happily greeting the artist and she flushes with pride at their recognition of her.

“Seems your reputation precedes you, Clarke,” Niylah winks, heading out the door, “‘Kay, you kids have fun!”

Everything grinds to a halt when a woman’s voice cuts through the din, and the students hush their chatter out of obvious respect.

“Welcome to Trigedasleng 101, Miss Griffin. It’s a pleasure to have you.”

Clarke’s eyes widen and it takes her a second to force her focus to shift to the instructor standing in front of the whiteboard, smiling softly at her.

“Lexa!” Clarke breathes the name almost reverently, and immediately swallows hard, silently cursing Niylah out for not warning her.

“Miss Woods, what a surprise! Niylah neglected to tell me whose class I’d be observing. I’m glad it’s you.” A blush spreads evenly across her cheeks as the honest sentiment slips into her words.

Lexa’s smile widens and they lock eyes, neither noticing the murmur amongst the students, surreptitious exchanges and excited whispers. Most of them know about Clarke since she was introduced at the beginning of the year as the newest faculty member, and they know that she and Lexa are the youngest instructors at Arkeda. However, it isn’t until recently that word has been going around that the two have started talking, and that something about their chemistry suggests potential for something more than friends and colleagues.

High school has it’s fair share of drama at any point in time, but office gossip that spills over into and overlaps with the student’s is a precious commodity, especially when it involves two of the institute’s favorite instructors. So it comes as no surprise when speculation over the could-be pairing, secretly referred to as “Clexa,” sees a steady uphill climb as their interactions are more frequently sighted. There seems to be an unspoken agreement to tiptoe around the two people actually involved when it comes to mentioning their obvious connection, but the opportunity to see them together in the same lecture hall for an entire class is too good not to egg them on just a tad.

“Miss Griffin, doesn’t Miss Woods look great today? She said she’s embarrassed because she had to rush this morning and didn’t dress properly, but we disagree.” There’s some snickering and the student’s friends elbow them, giggling.

“I, ah-,” Clarke laughs and bites her lip unconsciously, looking over Lexa’s outfit. She’s dressed in slacks and a button-down, the collar unbuttoned and the sleeves neatly rolled up and her hair down in loose waves.

Lexa chuckles, mouthing “it’s fine” before turning to chastise her students lightly. In that time, she produces a hair tie from her pocket and proceeds to deftly pull her hair back in a casual ponytail.

“Please excuse the delay, Miss Griffin. We spend a few minutes at the start of each class checking in, and occasionally relaying mundane stories of morning hassles. Won’t you sit? I hope you won’t find my disheveled appearance-,” Lexa shoots her students a pointed look, causing them to burst out laughing, “-too distracting. I think you’ll find Trigedasleng a far more interesting topic than clothing choices.”

“No, you- I want to assure your students that they’re right. You do look very nice, today. Handsome, actually.”

“Oh,” Lexa’s definitely blushing now, and someone accidentally “oohs” at the flirty comment, but quickly restrains themself. “Well I- You look lovely today, Miss Griffin.”

Clarke laughs, giving Lexa a gentle shove. “You charmer. Paint everywhere, no coffee- I think I found a leaf in my hair earlier. I look a mess, but thank you for your compliment anyway. You’re very sweet.”

You students are practically holding their breaths and there’s a collective sigh when Lexa gives an awkward nod in acknowledgement and turns to face the whiteboard, spelling out “wor” in the most perfect handwriting Clarke’s ever seen.

“Now, as we’ve discussed, Trigedasleng is a language of war,” Lexa slips easily into Trigedasleng, asking the assembled students who remembers the opposite of war. “Yongon, du yo mema? Chit bilaik gonplei wan daun?”

A student with tangled red hair pipes up after a second. “Ticha? Em ste hod trigplei op?” She asks brightly.

“Mous ait, Teira. Mochof. Oso gaf o-g-o-n-z-a-u-n,” Lexa sounds out the letters as she writes the word on the board. “Ogonzaun. The phrase that Terra brought up is the second closest you can name in Trigedasleng. The meaning is ‘fire’ or ‘shooting’ from Gonasleng’s ‘trigger play,’ and ‘hod op’ as you all learned in chapter three means to wait or pause, from ‘hold up.’”

“However, the term we’re looking for is ogonzaun, ‘all guns down.’ Truce. Ceasefire. Peace. It’s a rare concept to come across in a wartime dialect, but we must put things into the perspective of balance. War is a transient state, a violent push to impose change. Therefore it has an end goal, a destination. We’ve spoken about ‘ginteik,’ yes?”

“Ticha!”

“Sha, Kris?”

“Ginteik bilaik hashta chich ogonzaun?”

“Correct! Ginteik, ‘give and take,’ means treaty. Or peace talks, as Chris put it. Treaties are not always fair, but the results ending the war must be acknowledged. The Trigedasleng mentality is often linked to the phrase- Anyone?”

“Jus drein jus daun,” chants the entire class, and Lexa smiles in a way Clarke’s never seen.

“That’s right. ‘Blood must have blood.’ In wartime, life is about survival, and the language reflects that-”

“Mebi kiken raun bilaik mou kom jus kiken thru.” Everything slows down for a second, and the class turns to look at the owner of the unfamiliar voice.

“Well well well. Klark kom Skaikru. I didn’t realize we had another Trigedasleng aficionado in the room,” the brunette’s lips curl in a teasing smile and Clarke shrugs self-consciously.

“I did a little studying after we talked. You seem so passionate, I figured it had to be a fascinating language.”

Lexa’s face holds a softness akin to adoration for a split second before shifting into a small smile. “That it is. Did anyone catch what Miss Griffin just said?”

There are a few head shakes and the sound of students flipping through textbook pages, but those are the only responses Lexa gets. Scribbling on the board, still in her ridiculously neat hand, the instructor jots down the sentence before continuing on.

“This phrase- ‘Kiken raun bilaik mou kom jus kiken thru’ translates as ‘Life is about more than just surviving.’ It may well be considered the Trigedasleng epitome of hope for peace, a draw to something beyond fighting. So, we have spoken a great deal about war, but what about the mundane? Can anyone name some of the peacetime or daily practices listed in your chapter vocabulary?” Lexa scans the crowd, pen pointed at the students, eyebrows raised. “Which you were supposed to review last night, by the way…” She says out of the side of her mouth and the students chuckle. A few raise their hands, and Lexa calls on them to list off new vocabulary, word by word and weave meaning and cultural significance behind them.

She’s more animated up at the front of the class than Clarke would have guessed from her generally reserved demeanor, and the artist finds it endearing. It’s clear her students love her and it seems for many, this two hour lecture is their favorite class of the day. They are at ease, joking with Lexa, and laughing at the mock-seriousness of her responses, but all the while they are attentive and engaged and respectful. Clarke could not be more impressed, and by the end she cannot stop smiling for the life of her.

“Alright, class, I’ll see you all next Tuesday- remember to review chapters one through eight, the test is in one week. I’ve posted a new set of practice questions and updated the forum with a new prompt. If you want to ask me any questions or get my input, I’ll be logging on to the forum at eight o’clock tomorrow night. Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim, yongon.”

“Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim, ticha Leksa,” the students reply before filing out of the class. A few stay behind with lingering questions about assignments and vocabulary. So Clarke gathers her things and hops onto Lexa’s desk, legs swinging happily as she waits for the instructor to wrap up.

“-and that’s why Azgeda was such a significant part of wartime history. I highly recommend you take one of my history classes next year, Sienna, considering your curiosity on the connections it has to Trigedasleng. We go far more in-depth during that course.” The curly-haired student thanks Lexa profusely and ambles out of the room, a far-off look in their dark eyes, and the Trigedasleng instructor smiles after them.

“Hello, Clarke. Did you enjoy the lesson?”

“I did! Lexa, it was incredible! I’ve never seen students so enthralled with a lecture before, you’ve really got a talent for connecting with them. And wow, the language is just something else…” Clarke hedges for a moment, but continues on uncertainly, Raven’s text messages from earlier nagging at her. “Would you… Be willing to tell me a bit more about it? Over coffee, perhaps?”

Lexa stares for a moment, not quite comprehending the question. Clarke’s just so pretty, with her blonde hair pulled free from its messy bun and her blue eyes searching Lexa’s face for the hint of an answer. The artist bites her lip, her brow knitting slightly. She can’t tell how Lexa is receiving her suggestion and all she can really do is wait and see.

“I, ah, of course! If you can’t already tell, I love the language, and I’m always more than happy to share what I know with someone who shares my interest. Maybe you can teach me a little about your art. I must say, I admire such creative talent, but I have little aptitude for it myself,” Lexa laughs, and some of the tension goes out of Clarke’s shoulders.

“Honestly, I don’t know how you can call that handwriting of yours anything but artful. How is it so perfect? I mean, come ON.”

“Practice makes perfect, as the old adage goes,” The brunette flushes at Clarke’s compliment, and she turns to slide a stack of papers into her briefcase. “Shall we?” She gestures to the door.

“Sure thing.”

Lexa takes three long strides to door, pushing it open and stepping aside for the artist. “Ladies first,” she insists, indicating the open door with a dramatic sweep of her arm.

“You goofball, we’re both ladies!”

“Beauty before wisdom?”

“Are you suggesting that I am unwise?”

“I have yet to find that out, Klark kom Skaikru, but it is obvious to me that you are beautiful and thus- beauty before wisdom.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, blushing furiously. “What a charmer. Are you not beautiful as well?”

“That is for you to judge. But for now, can you just let me be chivalrous for a second instead of debating my reasons for doing so?” Clarke laughs, bright and full of joy, and it sends a tingling warmth up Lexa’s spine. Finally, the artist sweeps through the doorway, graciously curtseying as she passes Lexa.

“Where to now, miss?” Lexa asks as she shuts and locks the door behind them.

“Ah, wait, what time is it? I did promise to meet up with my best friend for milkshakes today.”

The brunette checks her watch, “It’s nearly five, do you need to leave?”

“I’m so sorry, Lexa, but I should probably get going. But I’ll absolutely take a rain check on that coffee and chat though if you’re still up for it?”

“Of course! There is no need to apologize, Clarke. I still have to finalize my chapter test for next week and I should drop in and check on my sister. I will speak with you…”

“I’ll text you tonight, we’ll figure it out from there. Mochof, Leksa,” impulsively, Clarke gives the Trigedasleng instructor a quick hug before dashing off down the hall.

“Leida, Klark kom Skaikru,” Lexa murmurs, touching her fingers to the place were Clarke’s cheek pressed to hers for an instant.

***

“Look at you, Griffin, you’re glowing!” Raven stands to greet her best friend with a tight hug before they slide into the striped vinyl booth. “So? How’d it go? You guys bang yet?”

“Raven!”

“What? It’s been like six hours. Don’t lie to yourself, babe, you’ve got hella game and a million-dollar rack. Professor Hot Stuff is something else, but I can’t imagine her resisting all this,” the engineer gestures at Clarke, indicating her entire body, “for long. Plus you have yet to deny my claim.”

“No, we didn’t ‘bang,’ Raven. I did ask if she wanted to get coffee sometime though. We were maybe going to go after her class- Hi!” A waiter comes to take their order, barely managing not to eye Clarke the entire time. Raven rolls her eyes. “Just two burgers, one chocolate milkshake and a vanilla malt, please.”

“You went for coffee, how was that?” Raven chews at the straw in her cup of ice water after he leaves.

“Oh no, we were going to, but I had to come meet up with you-”

“You. WHAT.”

“I had to leave becau-”

“CLARKE.”

“What? I- We-”

“You… You…” Raven buries her face in her hands, taking a full ten seconds before releasing a shuddering breath. She swallows down her immediate reaction, licks her lips and plasters the most fake smile Clarke’s ever seen across her face.

“Griff. Babygirl. I say this with ALL the love in my heart,” she takes the artists hands, making Clarke several shades of uncomfortable and possibly frightened. “You. Are. A. Fucking. Idiot.”

“What did I do??” The blonde is completely bewildered. Raven groans, releasing her friend’s hands to rub at her temples. She then presses her hands together, leveling her stare at Clarke.

“Babe. You dumped your date with Lexa a second after you finally made it, so you could come talk to me about how you finally talked to Lexa.” The engineer leans forward to emphasize her point and whispers, “See the problem?”

“...oh my god.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god. Raven. Oh my god.”

“You get it now?”

“Fuck! Raven, I’m such an idiot!”

“Hey, I’m never wrong, you know that.”

“Oh my god.” Clarke’s face is blank with the horror of her delayed realization.

The waiter sets down their plates of food, and asks if they need anything else, his face concerned as he tips his head to indicate the statue that Clarke has become. Raven mouths “she’s okay” and he shrugs, telling her he’ll be back to check in again later.

“Oh my god oh my godd.”

“Soundin’ a little broken-record there, Clarkey,” Raven drawls, stuffing a couple of fries into her mouth.

“I ruined everything, didn’t I. I did. I’m the worst. This is the worst. I’m the worst.”

“Okay drama queen, here’s the deal. You’re done being gob-smacked. Or flabbergasted. Or whatever the fuck. You’re done. You’re gonna keep talking to Professor Hot Stuff. You’re gonna be all charming and artsy and super thirsty for her blazers and ties. And you’re going to recognize that you fucked up- BUT that you didn’t ruin everything. And you’re going to schedule that coffee date for this weekend when we usually have breakfast and I kick your ass into the shower. You kick your own ass into the shower and go and get coffee and it’ll be good. Now stop staring off into the void with your mouth hanging open like a dead fish and help eat these burgers right now or so help me I will call your mom and she’ll be here with a lecture so fast you won’t have time to say ‘but I’m an adult.’ Capische?”

“...capische.”

“Good. Now let’s eat, I’m starving.”

***

Lexa’s phone lights up in the middle of editing her twenty-sixth sentence structure pop quiz. She turns drowsily, her chin still resting on her hand, then picks it up. She stretches and rubs her eye as she unlocks the phone, then freezes.

It’s from Clarke. _Right_. She said she’d text. It really shouldn’t be giving Lexa butterflies seeing the text sitting there.

 **[Clarke 11:06 PM]**  
Hey, you still up?

 **[Lexa 11:07PM]**  
I am. Believe it or not, I do occasionally experience wakefulness beyond the evening hours. 

Lexa panics after hitting send. _What if it comes across stand-offish? Will she know it’s a joke?_ She’s in the middle of hastily composing a second text to clarify the first, when her phone lights up again.

 **[Clarke 11:08 PM]**  
Lol you night owl

 **[Clarke 11:09 PM]**  
Sorry for making plans with you then running off right away, I didn’t mean for it to work out like that. Kinda didn’t think it through

 **[Lexa 11:10 PM]**  
No offense taken on my part, Clarke. You already had plans with your best friend, I did not want to encroach on that time.

 **[Clarke 11:12 PM]**  
Thanks, Lexa. That’s really understanding of you. Still sorry for being such a ditz about it though

 **[Clarke 11:14 PM]**  
Believe it or not, I’m actually gonna head to bed now

 **[Clarke 11:15 PM]**  
But I was thinking we could get that coffee? Maybe this Sunday?

The breath catches in Lexa’s throat, and she counts down, waiting for forty five seconds to pass before replying, attempting to suppress her eagerness.

 **[Lexa 11:16 PM]**  
I would love to.

 **[Clarke 11:16 PM]**  
Great, it's a date! Meet you in town? There’s this great cafe I go to sometimes, it’s called Farm Station. A little hipster, but their coffee is great and their pastries are to die for

 **[Lexa 11:16 PM]**  
That sounds lovely. I will meet you there at 11?

 **[Clarke 11:17 PM]**  
Perfect. Ok I can feel myself crashing so I gotta go before I say something dumb. Talk tomorrow?

 **[Lexa 11:18 PM]**  
Until tomorrow, Clarke. Sleep well.

 **[Clarke 11:18 PM]**  
‘Night, Leksa

Lexa's buzzing. " _it's a date..._ " the words ring in her head and she's wide-eyed, scouring them for potential meaning. Once she finally winds down a little, she smiles for a long time at that last message, the distinctive use of her name typed out in its Trigedasleng form. Then a final message makes the phone vibrate in her hand. It’s a single emoji. And Lexa spends an even longer time trying not to outright grin at the little winking face, it’s lips pursed in a tiny kiss. She doesn’t get a lot of sleep that night, studying the blank darkness between her eyes and the ceiling, wondering what to make of this blue-eyed woman who makes her stomach flutter and her mind calm with such ease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyyy so I absolutely love Trigedasleng, but I haven't studied it as extensively as I want yet, so feel free to let me know how badly I butchered my made-up sentences.
> 
> Trigedasleng translations:  
> Yongon, du yo mema? Chit bilaik gonplei wan daun?  
> Children, do you remember? What is it when fighting stops?
> 
> Ticha? Em ste hod trigplei op?  
> Teacher? Is it ‘stop/cease fire’?
> 
> Mous ait, Teira. Mochof. Oso gaf o-g-o-n-z-a-u-n.  
> Almost right, Terra. Thank you. We are looking for o-g-o-n-z-a-u-n.
> 
> Sha, Kris?  
> Yes, Chris?
> 
> Ginteik bilaik hashta chichnes ogonzaun?  
> ‘Ginteik’ is talk about peace?
> 
> Jus drein jus daun.  
> Blood must have blood.
> 
> Mebi kiken raun bilaik mou kom jus kiken thru.  
> Maybe life is about more than just surviving.
> 
> Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim.  
> May we meet again.
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clexa coffee date- Here it is. Wow. Look at that.

“Doesn't three hours of primping seem kind of excessive? I'm glad you gave yourself so much time, but any more and you might actually be late.”

“Maybe I should just not. Just. Maybe I'm getting sick. I feel feverish. I should just call her, right?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Clarke. I’m _willingly_ giving up my free caffeine buzz for you so you better make it good. Remember? You were supposed to buy this week.” She glances sideways to smirk at the artist and finds her smoothing out her top for the millionth time, scrutinizing her choice of clothing in the full-length mirror. “Stop- oh my god stop doing that. If you run your hands over your frickin shirt one more time it’s gonna fall apart at the seams.”

“Do my boobs look okay? What about my jeans? Is this too casual? HELP ME, RAVEN,” Clarke suddenly turns to her friend, eyes wild.

“JESUS GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF WOMAN,” Raven stumbles back a step, shielding her face with her arms.

Clarke covers her face with her hands, letting out a long groan and peeks out from between her fingers, continuing to assess her outfit in the mirror.

“What if she’s more of a butt gay than a boob gay? What if she’s not even into chicks. Raven I can’t do this. She’s gonna be there looking all sexy in her clothes with her hair and her jawline and that smile and I’m just going to-”

“Nut in your jeans?” The engineer returns to stand next to Clarke, leveling an amused but sympathetic eye at her friend’s reflection.

“-melt. Or explode. You’d like that. Explosions are your thing.”

“I do like making things go boom,” Raven slings an arm around the blonde’s shoulders, giving them a squeeze. “But generally not when it comes to my best friend.”

Clarke finally brings her hands down, an exasperated smile on her face and grimaces at Raven.

“I’m a mess.”

“But a hot mess. A hot mess that’s about to get coffee with a hot… non-mess. You’ll balance each other out.”

“God, this is so dumb. I haven’t been this nervous since my first exhibition.”

“That’s art, babe, not a person.”

“Have you seen her??”

“...did you just call her art. I’m gonna barf.” Raven rolls her eyes so hard Clarke thinks she might sprain them. “Although you already painted her so…”

“Can you not,” Clarke hisses at Raven. “We said we wouldn’t talk about that.”

“Suuuure okay, Griffin. Gonna let it slide that you’re the one who brought it up last week when you complained that you didn’t know where to put it and then let it continue to sit in your studio. Don’t think I haven’t noticed that you take the cover off it look at it.”

The artist blushes furiously, avoiding Raven’s eyes. “ANYWAY what about my outfit, do you think it’s okay?”

“For the million-billionth time, Clarke, you look great. Now quit squishing your tits. I’m seriously starting to wonder if you can fuse them together with that kind of pressure.”

“I bet she's not this nervous. She can't be this much of a wreck.”

***

“You're a wreck, Woods.”

Lexa glares at Anya, who is lounging loose-limbed and smug in one of the bar’s high-backed easy chairs.

“A friendly reminder that you are tarnishing the name we share with your mockery, sister mine.”

“No shit, Sherlock. But I'm right and you know it. Blondie’s got you wrecked.”

Lexa sighs, staring down at the tie is her hands. It's one of her favorites, deep reddish-orange in color with a subtle, rough texture.

“Is it too casual? Too formal?” She muses aloud- not for the first time, if Anya’s dramatic sigh is anything to judge by.

“Lex, it's just a tie.”

“What if it's not the right one?”

Anya flings her arm out, incredulously indicating the sizeable display of ties laid out across the bar.

“And you're telling me none of those are? Not a single one of your gajillion ties are acceptable? Not one??”

“I- do you think she'd prefer if I dressed more casually?”

“L, I swear to fucking god-,” Anya is about to go off on another tirade, but Lexa's wide-eyed expression is so earnest that she composes herself.

“It's fine, Lex. It's gonna go great. No pressure, it's just coffee. You guys already text 'til ridiculously late, I can't imagine you're about to run out in person. She obviously likes you. Just… just pick a goddamn tie, sis.”

A hopeful smile appears at Anya’s words. “You think she likes me?”

“Yeah, Lex. I'm sure she does,” the bartender smirks affectionately even as she tosses a forest green tie at the younger Woods. “But you better hurry it up, you're gonna be late soon.”

Lexa catches the tie and frowns, indecision jamming her thoughts. “Green instead?”

Anya checks her phone a couple of times, updating Aden on the “Lexa Situation” and answering some questions about the bar's upcoming anniversary party on their twitter account, leaving Lexa to her quiet contemplation.

But by the time fifteen more minutes have passed, Anya has heard her sister mutter “does this match?” one too many times and decides to put her foot down.

“‘Kay, time’s up. Aden needs his waffles.” She gets up in one go with a forceful push, propelling herself out of the chair toward Lexa. Snatching the ties away despite Lexa's protests, she tosses them in with the array of others on the bar. Then she whisks Lexa’s jacket off its barstool and grabs her by the shoulders, steering her towards the door.

“Anya! Wait! I haven't- what are you-”

“Sorry sis, you took too long so I'm choosing for you. No questions. No complaining. No tie. Out now.”

“But Anya! Wait, what about the blue one! I have- It’s cornflower blue! Cornflower blue!”

“Tough luck, kiddo. Cafe’s that way and a few blocks to the left,” The door shuts with a click followed by the unyielding thunk of the door being bolted, and Anya jerks her thumb towards the intersection down the street. “See ya later, Lex, have fun.”

She turns away from her bewildered sister, then stops short for a second and flashes a quick smile over her shoulder. “It’s gonna go great, kid. Just be you.”

Then she’s gone, leaving Lexa to begin walking towards the destination that she is both dreading and anticipating with excitement.

***

Clarke’s early. She’s never early for anything, really, but somehow she’s early. Raven dropped her off so that helped, and now she’s unsure what to do. She’s checked her phone half a dozen times already, staring incredulously at the time, and opts to duck into the small dusty bookstore next to the cafe. She’s uncomfortable at the idea of fidgeting over her coffee, eyeing the door for the remaining half hour she has before the time they actually set. She grumpily rationalizes that this is precisely why she prefers to arrive late, as if it’s normally a conscious choice.

Breathing in the calming scent of binding glue and worn paper pages, Clarke runs her fingers reverently over the edges of heavy leather-bound tomes and flimsy volumes of pulp-fiction. She always loves the excitement of visiting an art supply store, the artist’s version of an ecstatic sticky-fingered kid’s candy store paradise.

Still, there’s something about the stuffy, creaking, towering shelves of old bookstores that settle her. She won’t even buy anything most of the time, tending to favor audiobooks, but she will guiltily pull out a few dollars if they happen to have a tip jar for her to drop them in.

So it takes an insistent ding from her phone to cut through her happy reverie.

 **Bae-es [10:42 AM]**  
What time is it

Clarke’s brow wrinkles uncomprehendingly.

 **art hoe [10:42 AM]**  
Time for you to get a watch?

 **Bae-es [10:43 AM]**  
No, dumbass, time for me to make sure your ass is in that cafe waiting for Lexa

Clarke’s eyes widen as the time sinks in and she makes a beeline for the door, giving the person behind the counter a friendly wave on her way out.

 **art hoe [10:44 AM]**  
RAVEN YOU ARE AN ANGEL

 **art hoe [10:44 AM]**  
WHAT WOULD I DO WITHOUT YOU

Clarke pushes her way into the cafe, triggering the soft jingle of the door’s bell and earning her a smile from a barista behind the counter. She smiles back and glances around quickly, relieved to see that Lexa is nowhere in sight. Making her way to a quiet corner of the space, she sets her bag down, straightening her clothes and running fingers nervously through her hair before checking her phone again.

 **Bae-es [10:46 AM]**  
I know. And idk probably be passed out on your studio floor with scurvy and little chance of getting laid

 **art hoe [10:46 AM]**  
Okay a little much, Rey

 **Bae-es [10:47 AM]**  
Hey, you asked

 **art hoe [10:47 AM]**  
Ass

The artist punctuates the text with a heart emoji and scans the cafe again, chewing her lip as she contemplates the chalkboard menus.

 **Bae-es [10:48 AM]**  
And a damn fine one, thank you very much

 **Bae-es [10:48 AM]**  
Yo mama loves this ass

Clarke grimaces, then sighs, chuckling quietly.

 **art hoe [10:49 AM]**  
You couldn’t resist, could you?

 **Bae-es [10:49 AM]**  
…

 **art hoe [10:50 AM]**  
were you going to make a that’s what she said joke

 **Bae-es [10:51 AM]**  
Maybe

 **Bae-es [10:51 AM]**  
Yes

 **art hoe [10:52 AM]**  
Okay well save it. I’ve got a serious case of butterflies waiting for Lexa. I think I’m sweating

 **Bae-es [10:52 AM]**  
Gross

 **Bae-es [10:52 AM]**  
But you got this. Knock ‘em dead. Not literally. Make out, don’t pass out? You’re gonna have a great time

 **art hoe [10:53 AM]**  
Thanks, Raven. You’re the best

 **Bae-es [10:54 AM]**  
You bet I am. I’m awesome

 **Bae-es [10:54 AM]**  
Oh and don’t forget, your mom and I are waiting for updates ;)

Clarke is in the middle of typing “Good lord, Rey” when the door chimes and she jumps, instinctually slipping her phone into her purse, her eyes immediately finding the figure entering the cafe. The light glances off the door’s glass panels, rendering Clarke temporarily sightless. She blinks rapidly to clear her vision and feels the breath leave her lungs when she suddenly finds green eyes locked with her own.

***

As Lexa rounds the corner, the cafe comes into view. Already fairly well occupied with its variety of well-dressed patrons, most in their 20s and 30s, it sits sandwiched between a hole-in-the-wall bookstore and an almost equally small, but spruced up venue that looks like it sees more nightlife activity than any during daylight hours.

It’s not her usual neighborhood, but she gets the sense that she could develop a taste for the its array of stationary and flower stores, not to mention the flier advertising a beeswax candle-making workshop at their local community art center, which she discreetly pockets.

It isn’t until her hand settles on the polished brass handle of the cafe door that she fully acknowledges how nervous she is. The collar of her button down chaffs uncomfortably, and she rubs the back of her neck with a defeated sigh. She hasn’t been on a real date since her college years, and even then it was an exercise of interest dampened by her scholastic commitments.

 _Is it even a date?_ The thought tugs at the back of her mind insistently. She hesitates, earning a questioning look from the lop-eared dog lounging outside the doorway. She glances down at her watch, _10:54_ , then at the dog.

“What do you think?” She murmurs, and the dog lays its head on outstretched paws, looking up with sympathetic eyes but offering no further insight. Lexa smiles at the dog’s non-judgemental stare and peers inside, not seeing Clarke.

“It’ll be a nice day. What is there to lose?” She gives the dog a firm nod as if to confirm her course of action, “Thank you.”

The dog huffs a small sigh. Lexa pushes her way into the cafe, put at ease by the faint chime of a bell, and looks around for Clarke. As if pulled by a magnetic, her focus is drawn to a corner of the space and suddenly there are blue eyes and a bright smile and Lexa’s lips part for a moment in stunned silence.

Pressing her lips together, she swallows nervously and makes her way over to where the blonde is sitting.

“Well hello there,” Clarke’s voice has a soft rasp to it that sends a tingle up Lexa’s spine.

“Hello, Clarke. You look very nice today,” Lexa almost fails to avert her eyes from the deep v of the artist’s partially unbuttoned flannel which allows for a tasteful, if unsubtle, display of her generous cleavage. She masks it by turning to set down her coat while asking Clarke for any recommendations and if she’s ordered yet.

“I didn’t want to get anything before you got here,” she laughs.

“But coffee is top priority for sure. And we’ve gotta get some pastries. Or maybe an omelette if you’re hungry, they’re kind of known for those, and their smoothies. Screw their smoothies though,” she glances up to see Lexa’s amused but perplexed expression and quickly backpedals. “Unless you like smoothies! Smoothies are good too!”

Lexa lets out a quiet chuckle and Clarke blushes slightly. “I am more of a tea person on a normal basis, but I will have to try their coffee with our pastry selection since it comes so highly recommended.”

“Wow, not a coffee fiend. You’re a rare breed, what’s that like?” Lexa opens her mouth to give an honest answer before registering the artist’s joshing tone and twinkle in her eye.

“Ah, yes. I suppose it’s an unnecessary habit when my waking hours tend to to be more during actual daylight,” she clears her throat, avoiding Clarke’s mock-offended expression. “I think an omelette sounds perfect. I will trust your judgement on the pastries.”

They end up with a slightly ridiculous number of pastries that “you’ve got to try, Lexa!” and talk for most of the afternoon, hours easily slipping by unobserved.

Lexa gets this faraway look in her eyes when Clarke asks about the Trigedasleng-fluent war commanders of past wars. It draws the artist in. Lexa speaks with the utmost respect about their brilliant battle tactics and fearlessness, but with an almost exhausted ring to her words as if she truly understands the weight of the responsibilities they carried. Clarke watches her without once looking away, studying the tic of muscles in her jaw as she mulls over the commanders’ sacrifices, and the split-second of grief that flashes in her eyes at the thought of coming across the aftermath of a brutal massacre. She wordlessly decides that Lexa’s eyes tell everything if you look carefully enough, a decidedly painless task when they harbor such lovely, ever-changing shades of green. Clarke likes the way she can watch Lexa without interruption as the brunette becomes increasingly animated when she speaks with passion about how she fell in love with the language during her college days.

Lexa is buzzing a little from the unusual jolt of caffeine delivered in her small cup of iced coffee, but that’s the only thing that’s got her so giddy, right? She shakes her head, privately admonishing herself for talking too much, and asks Clarke about her college experience. She wraps her fingers carefully around the roughly glazed ceramic cup and smiles for what feels like the thousandth time that morning at a story Clarke tells her about her college days. She moves her hands in sweeping gestures as if outlining her words, painting a picture of her and Raven sprinting barefoot across lawn away from a frat house they had sabotaged.

Clarke cringes at the thought of having been Party Girl Griffin for a brief period during her freshman year, drunk on cheap liquor and the freedom of being away from home. But the day she received her grades at the end of the semester was a serious wake-up call. That same night she and Raven, in a corner away from the thumping music and messy press of sweating bodies, had made a pact to reject their overindulgence. She tells Lexa how they had swapped disgusted remarks about frat life and, emboldened by alcohol, decided to leave their party life behind with a bang. Working quickly, Clarke rifled through room after room, spray-painting neon stripes across the crotches of any and all guy’s clothing she could find. She grins at the incredulous, but delighted look on the brunette’s face and continues to explain that Raven on the other hand had rigged the sound system. She programmed it to, at the stroke of midnight, begin streaming from a playlist consisting of children’s cartoon theme songs, polka music and Beijing opera tracks which could not be altered nor could the volume be adjusted until seven the next morning.

Lexa’s eyes widen at the thought and neither of them can suppress their laughter at the image of what madness took place in the aftermath. Clarke and Raven had been found out just as they completed their tasks by a couple of very inebriated frat guys who stumbled after them, hollering that pretty girls should be dancing with gentlebros like them. Barricading themselves in an upstairs bedroom, they had knotted together the bedsheets, pulled their shoes off and slipped out the window to the ground below.

Nose crinkling in an adorable smile, the Trigedasleng instructor leans forward and whispers conspiratorially that she wishes someone had done that to all the frat houses on her campus.

“The farthest I ever took my vigilantism was getting into a fight with this student who kept interrupting my favorite women and gender studies professor,” She drops the comment in casually, then proceeds to take the last mouthful of her apple scone as if ready to immediately forget it, and Clarke practically does a double take.

“Excuse me, what?”

Lexa’s back is turned as she is being addressed by one of Farm Station’s employees, informing her that unfortunately they’ll be closing shortly, and have to ask them to leave. She thanks the employee and, having not heard Clarke, begins to gather her things to go. _Is this the end of the date?_ Worry flickers in her green eyes as she turns back to the artist and she trips over her words a little, nervously pinching at the slightly coarse wool fabric of her coat with slim fingers. “I would- It would seem our time in the cafe has come to a close. Shall we go?”

Momentarily distracted from her need to know about college Lexa’s tiff, Clarke scrambles to scoop up her jacket, purse, phone, wallet and bag of pastries they didn’t finish. Items which have found themselves spread over every available surface over the course of their stay at the cafe.

“Oh- Of course, hold on a sec, I- just. Yep. I’ll just get everything straightened out outside. This is…,” she looks down at the jumble of items in her arms, “not manageable right now. Lead the way.”

Lexa laughs softly, pulling open the door and ushering Clarke through with an exaggerated sweep of her arm in response to which the artist blushes, muttering something about damn knights and their chivalry.

Lexa stands patiently as Clarke rearranges herself outside the cafe, and mulls over what to do next. Finally the artist gives herself a last pat-down, pulling at the hem of her shirt and smiles, satisfied at the results.

“So!” She turns to Lexa, whose mind goes into a tailspin with those blue eyes locked on hers in such close proximity.

She stammers, and Clarke bites her lip to hide a smile. “I- ah. Yes? I mean. Yes. We could- Would you like to continue our conversation elsewhere?” She clears her throat, attempting to recover by gallantly offering the other woman her arm.

“Sure thing, babes.” At this particular nickname, Lexa flushes and swallows hard, trying her best not to choke on her tongue. Clarke nearly drops her purse and misses the deep pink of Lexa’s cheeks, then laughs, turning to loop her arm through Lexa’s. As they begin to stroll down the street, she continues her earlier line of inquiry. “So tell me. You got into what kind of fight now?”

They walk past hipster bars and flower shops through the downtown area and wander aimlessly as Lexa spins the tale of her one college showdown.

It was a tough semester for Lexa, having shouldered six classes against Anya’s forceful advice, and sleep was in short order. Her only solace, aside from burning the midnight oil in her favorite corner of the library, was her women and gender studies class. The professor was a stern but fair teacher and intent on drilling an understanding of intersectional feminism, and basic human decency into every one of her students. For the most part, her lectures were highly respected and taken very seriously, but there was the occasional pupil who took the class only to fulfil their general requirement for behavioral and social sciences. The bully, whose name Lexa insists on keeping under wraps “for privacy’s sake,” was one such attendee. He consistently mouthed off in class, arguing that the professor’s teachings were a “bunch of femi-nazi bullshit” (pardon my French, Lexa interjects, making Clarke laugh) and defending rape culture, much to the obvious discomfort of every other student in the lecture hall. It rubbed Lexa the wrong way. For a while she grumbled about it, or ranted on occasion to Anya, who offered to “give that bastard a good ass-kicking” but figured she could stand it until the end of the semester.

“It turns out I was wrong about that,” Lexa smiles ruefully. She talked to the professor about her concerns, citing inappropriate disruptions to class discussion, and she had attempted to address the student. However, he laughed it off, calling the class a joke and said he was attending for kicks.

So one day, Lexa lost her temper. He was spouting some nonsense about people “asking for it when they dress slutty” and Lexa stood up, cutting him off mid-sentence. Lexa was so quiet and studious, and her participation was never intrusive, so her response shocked the class.

“‘You’re wrong,’ I said, and he laughed. We argued for ten whole minutes before the professor managed to step in. It was getting really heated and I could tell my professor didn’t know what to do. The situation needed to be de-escalated. By that time, he was in my face, calling me a disgusting lesbo and accusing me of vile things he had supposedly heard.” Clarke bites her lip, trying not to look worried over young Lexa. She knows it’ll turn out alright, after all Lexa is walking right there beside her, but she can’t help herself.

“I lost it. I wasn’t even out to Anya yet, even though she’d tell me later she always knew,” Lexa chuckles lowly, shaking her head at the memory and Clarke’s skin prickles at the realization that Lexa is coming out to her as well. “So I shoved him. Called him a coward and told him to meet me outside after class. I grabbed my things and slammed my way out of the lecture hall doors.”

Clarke lets out a slow breath. “Shit,” she mutters, shooting an apologetic look at the parent leading their toddler past them at that moment. “Did he get kicked out of the class after that?”

“Oh no, the story isn’t over yet, Clarke. He showed up after class.”

“Wait, you actually fought him? In real life, with your… Physically? Actual fistfight?”

Lexa laughs breathily, “I did actually fight him. You see this?” She twists her left arm to reveal a long, faded scar along the outside edge of her palm. “I tore my hand open on a branch when he kicked me against a tree. That was the most prominent damage. Other that this, I had bruised knuckles and ribs the next day, and a bloody nose for a bit. I nearly fractured my hand on his face before remembering that hitting him in the nose and throat would better disable him. He didn’t come back to class after that.”

They walk in silence for a while, and Lexa breathes in the park’s cooling autumn air contentedly, assuming that her explanation has satisfied the artist’s curiosity.

“You won?” The question comes after a few more minutes pass.

“Pardon?”

“You… fought him. And you won?

“That’s right. First and only fight of my college career. I did receive a reprimand for it, but my professor backed me along with several classmates who were witness to the scuffle, claiming it was self defense. So I got out of it relatively unscathed. For a moment I was more than somewhat afraid I would lose my scholarship. That was a hard week.”

She goes quiet for a minute, the remembrance of panic over possibly losing her scholarship flickering briefly across her face. Clarke watches her carefully, waiting to see if she feels like elaborating. Lexa’s focus is brought back to the present with the soft touch of cool fingers on her hand. She smiles gratefully at Clarke, and lets the memory slip away.

“It feels like a long time ago.”

“In a way, it was. I doubt you’d get into a fistfight with another instructor these days.” Clarke eyes Lexa speculatively, holding back a smile. “Would you?”

At that, the Trigedasleng professor gives in to a genuine grin.

“No, Miss Griffin, I don’t believe I would. Although I’ve still got the skills for it.” She winks, and Clarke would be lying if she said the thought didn’t make her a little hot under the collar, but she returns Lexa’s warm smile without risking an inappropriate comment.

They walk in comfortable silence, admiring the fall colors and crisp air that tugs at the pair’s shared warmth. They head toward the edge of town, following fiery trails of discarded leaves. It isn’t until Clarke notices a familiar art supply store that she realizes where her feet have led them.

“Huh.”

“What is it?” Lexa asks softly, and Clarke melts a little. She indicates their inadvertent destination with a noncommittal wave.

“I- uh. Well. This is me.” They come to a stop in front of and oddly architected building, an almost modest two-story house with a plain walk-up entryway and no driveway. Tall, curtained windows on the second floor hint at an unusual high-ceilinged space.

“You- oh!” The realization hits Lexa a second too late and Clarke giggles at her expression. “Your place. It’s lovely.”

“Please,” Clarke scoffs, still she gazes fondly at her home. “It was built by a writer. He loved open space and the natural light in the morning so he had that giant loft built. It’s my studio now. I hope to buy the house someday but his niece, the property owner, isn’t ready to let the house go quite yet. I understand. It’s very personal for her. But I do love the house. I hope she knows I’d take good care of it.”

Lexa’s eyes haven’t left the artist’s profile and for a moment her gaze flicks down to the soft curve of Clarke’s gentle smile in wonderment. _She’s beautiful_.

Blue eyes look over, and she’s puzzled at the way Lexa’s attention shifts abruptly to the building Clarke had been speaking about. _What’s on her mind?_

“So I-”

“I guess this-”

They lapse into an awkward silence, their conversational false starts cancelling each other out. After a second, Clarke laughs self-consciously and Lexa smiles, her cheeks tinged pink.

“I am sorry for interrupting, Clarke.”

“Silly,” The artist bumps her cheek against Lexa’s shoulder. “I interrupted as much as you did. Don’t diminish my role in the awkwardness.”

“So.”

“So.”

“I guess…,” Lexa hesitates, then makes a move to let go of Clarke’s arm, which is still tucked in hers. “This is where I leave y-”

“-Do you want to come in?” Clarke cuts in breathlessly.

Lexa’s eyebrows shoot up, her mouth falling open slightly at the invitation.

“That is- I don’t mean to- If you want-,” Her brow is furrowed, and she picks anxiously at the hem of her shirt, stumbling over her words in an attempt to better articulate her offer.

“Clarke.” Lexa’s voice is soft, and it mutes the artist’s own. “I would love to.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY. Long time no see. Sorry guys, the past month or so has just been... Heh. God, well it's been something, I'll tell you that. Anyway.
> 
> Did you like the cliffhanger? No? Guess what. *whispering* It isn't over yet.
> 
> Let me know what you think of the sappy grossness, if you're so inclined. In that vein, you can check out fluff-farm on tumblr for fluffy Clexa oneshots (I've written one so far :P) and flower crown edits in case you need some levity.
> 
> And you guys. Thank you so much for sticking with me and my little fic. I promise I'll finish it. And I guarantee there are other projects in the future. <3


	8. Interim chapter - The Story of Anya & Aden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Woods sisters have always been close. They’ve fought, vigorously at times, and it wasn’t always the smoothest between them. Still, growing up surviving together made them scrappy and if anything, it cemented their bond.
> 
> Lexa has always enough for her, they are their own family unit. Anya never wanted kids. It’s not that she hates them or anything, but she never really understood the appeal, and kids always seemed to find her off-putting so it’s easy enough to keep her distance.
> 
> But life often has a way of blindsiding people with its own plans.

Anya has a preference for getting to know cities up close and personal, and weekends will often find her wandering familiar neighborhood routes. There is a park nearby with open lawns sheltered by well-established deciduous trees whose colors rework the city’s palette in the fall time. It quickly becomes a favorite walking spot for Anya, and she spends a good deal of time there making plans for her bar, or just criss-crossing the concrete paths in her spare hours.

It’s four years ago when Anya first moves into the area and buys the bar that she begins exploring on foot and comes across Aden sitting cross-legged on a cold metal bench overlooking a lawn in the park.

She wouldn’t normally pay much heed, but Anya’s experienced eye catches the way his clothes hang on a too-skinny frame, a subtle smear of red and the reddened area around the bridge of his nose as she breezes by on her way to the bar. Anya ponders this for the remainder of the day. She’s been hungry often enough to know that look, just as she has been in enough fights to know the sign of an impact-induced bloody nose, and his is no exception.

Three weeks go by and she sees him there, always around the same time, studying from outdated and excessively large textbooks. Always with hastily-hidden evidence of some kind of scuffle. So one week, Anya braces herself and instead of passing by as usual, she walks up and plants herself in front of the red-haired boy until he looks up at the figure standing before him. She is used to a look of apprehension flashing across the faces of strangers when she enters their space, her leather jackets and “resting bitch face” making an intimidating and wordless introduction. But he only blinks observant eyes at her, waiting for her to make the first move.

"Hey kid. What's with the busted schnozz?"

"I fell."

"Bullshit. You had the same deal last week."

And that’s all. He just shrugs, his focus returning to his neatly-written notes on loose-leaf pages of binder paper. So Anya turns to walk away, but she is far from letting it go.

So the next week, he’s there like clockwork and when Anya finds him at the bench, she stakes her claim on the spot at the opposite end of the bench without saying a word. She unwraps a BLT and opens a can of root beer and just observes. She sees the way he swallows, eyeing her food. So they sit there- Aden with his textbook and Anya sorting through liquor orders for the bar. An odd pair. Eventually, he gets up and leaves for the day.

The third week, Anya brings her book of crosswords, not that she will ever admit to doing the crossword. It’s Lexa’s, she just borrowed it because she misplaced her book, honest. She eats her grilled cheese and pushes a wrapped bagel toward Aden. He doesn’t touch it while she’s there. So she leaves.

By the fifth week, there is no pretext. She’s just there when he studies. She brings a fresh bread roll and a cup of hot chocolate and quietly asks him about his bruised knuckles after an hour.

"I get hurt a lot."

"By what?"

There's a long pause.

"By my friends."

"Then they're not your friends, kid." Anya gets up and leaves to let him process, knowing that's all she'll get out of him for the day. Another week goes by, this time with a cup of soup and a sugar cookie.

"Do you know geometry?"

Anya gives him a sidelong look.

"A little."

"Can you help me with this problem?"

Anya smiles. They're sharing food by now, this week bringing burgers, fries and a chocolate malt.

"I like dipping my fries in my shake, but my sister thinks it's disgusting. What do you think?"

"...I think your sister might be wrong." "Damn right, she is! Wait ‘til I tell her..."

Anya’s chuckling, but trails off when she notices Aden's expression, clouded with distress.

"What's the matter, kid?"

"I don't think I like being hurt anymore."

"Can't say I blame you."

His face brightens a little. "Talking about it is easier with you though."

Anya's eyes go wide with shock, then tenderness. "Are your 'friends' still messing with you?"

"Yeah." He looks dejected, quietly folding his paper straw wrapper into a tiny star.

A wicked grin begins forming on Anya's face. "I can help you with that."

"How?"

She turns to face him, setting aside the shake. "Let me teach you how to fight back. Everyone deserves the ability to defend themself."

Aden's unsure at first, Anya can tell he’s struggling with trust and his gentle nature. But his features grow hard and determined.

"Okay. Let's do it."

"You got it, kid. Next week?"

"How about tomorrow?" He smiles and Anya glows.

"Sure thing." She turns to wrap up the remnants of their meal.

"And Anya?"

"Yeah?"

"They're not my friends."

She couldn't be more proud. Over the course of a month, meeting after school every day, Anya teaches Aden to fight.

She teaches him how to take a punch when necessary, but mainly how to avoid them and how to strike when the time is right.

Aden's a fast learner, faster than even Lexa when Anya had taught her younger sister years ago- back when she had the training studio still.

It comes to fruition one day, when Aden meets Anya at the bench with a black eye, bruised knuckles and a bandage on his cheek and drops a bag of croissants triumphantly next to her. "I won my fight."

Anya beams, then raises her eyebrows.

"And the pastries?"

"Their lunch money." He grins and Anya's laugh echoes off the trees.  
"What would your parents say?" She's still laughing, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes, when Aden goes silent.

"I don't have any," he states, matter-of-factly. "Chocolate or almond?"

"Wait, what?"

"I live at the orphanage, Anya. Chocolate or almond?"

"Aden."

"It never came up before." He rubs his nose lightly, it's pink from the autumn cold. "Chocolate or almond?"

"Almond. Aden you're such a good kid, how have they not found you a home?"

"Thank you," he hands her the almond croissant and bites into the chocolate. "Older orphans are harder to get adopted. People want to see their kids grow up."

"That's absurd- I've seen you grow up plenty in the last three months! No wonder why you're always hungry, always fighting, the orphanage is so poorly funded. God, I'm so angry-"

"Anya. It's okay. Don't waste a good croissant."

Anya sits quietly fuming and watches Aden point out song birds that haven't left for the winter yet, trying to imitate their calls. The next day, Anya goes to apply to be Aden's guardian. All the paperwork is filled out, it only needs one last signature. Anya stalls. She calls Aden to postpone their next meeting, citing a bad cold as her excuse, but it's really just nerves.

She's never wanted kids, but that's not what makes her nervous. _What if he says no? What if she's not enough, not what he needs? What if she can't protect him, if he has to keep fighting every day?_

She paces. And worries.

Finally she can't put it off any longer and she goes to meet him at the bench the next week. They chat, talk about mundane things like his last biology exam and the leaping fish he finished whittled out of a piece of scrapwood following Anya's instructions, and subsequently how he almost got in trouble for possession of a knife on campus.

Anya keeps rubbing her hands together. It's not that cold.

Finally, Aden asks, "Are you alright? You seem anxious."

Anya takes a deep breath before replying, her words making clouds of condensation as they meet the cold air.

"Listen, kid. Believe it or not, I'm kind of fond of you. And it fucking sucks- it really hurts knowing that you aren't being looked out for like you should be. You're a bright kid. Smart as a whip and you've got more compassion in your arm than I've probably had my entire life. You deserve a hell of a lot better."

"Thank you, Anya." His expression is serious, giving her his full attention.

"You like me okay, don't you?"

"I do, yes."

"I was thinking, if you'd like, you could come live with me," Aden's mouth falls open slightly and in the following silence, Anya rambles nervously.

"I mean, I don't have a great kid-raising place. Just an apartment and I run a bar so that might not be the best. But I mean. If you'd like, you could have a roof over your head, stick around if you want..." She trails off.

"Stay with you?” Only then does she turn to face Aden, giving in to a hesitant smile. “That’s about the size of it, yeah.”

“You mean… forever?"

Anya's heart aches at the hope in his voice. "Forever and ever, kiddo."

She isn't prepared for the sudden strength of his embrace, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Shocked, she blinks rapidly, bemusement settling across her features. Gingerly folding her arms around him, she holds him to her, his quiet tears muffled even further by the softness of her jacket.

So Anya becomes Aden's guardian for life, and nothing has ever felt more right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO I AM NOT DEAD.
> 
> I apologize for this mess of a chapter, but I wanted to give all two of my readers a little tidbit after all this time as well as renew my promise that I'll finish this story. Plus I really like Anya and Aden's dynamic in this fic.
> 
> So guys, between the political climate and life, things have been a mess of late. I'm trying to get back on track with my writing now and should hopefully be giving you some new material this next month. If you're still reading, thank you so much for sticking with me, I hope my fic still brings a smile to your face. Cheers, and I'll see you next chapter!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-coffee date. Look at these losers.
> 
> (A wild Update appeared! Holy socks!)

It’s not quite dark yet when the two enter Clarke’s house, but she switches on the lights anyway, and is rewarded with the sight of Lexa’s careful, wide-eyed expression. The brunette looks around politely, but in all honesty, Lexa is picking up on every detail, quietly reveling in the experience of being surrounded by all the things that Clarke calls home.

Clarke hides her smile as she turns to walk down the short hallway to the kitchen. “It’s a lot more than I ever thought I’d be able to afford back in my college days. I would’ve felt like a stereotype, being the starving artist and all, but I was too miserable to be that self-conscious.”

“I’ve heard it’s difficult to make it as an artist,” Lexa offers tentatively, “I think it’s very noble of you to follow your calling that way.”

The artist turns to beam at her companion. “I don’t think anyone’s called me noble before. Although Raven’s called me a stubborn asshole, if you count that as a compliment. You’re sweet, you know that?”

The tips of Lexa’s ears turn a few shades of pink, but she maintains steady eye contact, which has Clarke smiling all the more.

“I mean, you’re pretty noble yourself, miss knight in shining armor. With your gallantry and-” Clarke feigns a boxing stance, giving Lexa’s shoulder a few light jabs, making the other woman laugh, “duels?”

She drops her hands. “And besides, you’re following your calling too, aren’t you? All your students adore you, and I’m willing to bet Trigedasleng’s never had a cuter spokesperson-” Clarke clears her throat and turns to switch on the lights that illuminate a central staircase leading to the second floor. “Um, if you’d like, you can come up and see my studio- I think I forgot to put away a few supplies earlier today.”

It’s getting late in the year and the dark blanket of sky left by the setting sun is pulled over the city earlier every evening. As they reach the top of the stairwell, Clarke can make out the fading glimmers of a gorgeous sunset through the partially-drawn curtains of her studio.

“Beautiful,” Lexa murmurs behind her, and the hushed reverence of her voice sends an involuntary shiver up the artist’s spine. She’s about to answer when Lexa laughs quietly.

“You know, I’d almost say teaching Trigedasleng was my second passion in life.”

“Oh?” Clarke turns to find forest green eyes trained on the setting sun, the golden light reflected across their surface, and she wonders what Lexa sees. “And what could you possibly be more passionate about?”

Green eyes meet blue and Clarke swallows hard, feigning a casual smile.

“I suppose I would say the world, if it didn’t sound so trite. I’ve always wanted to see, to experience everything the world has to offer. I wouldn’t give up what I have with my students for it by any means, but it’s a daydream I’ve always had, to seek out the places I’ve read and imagined so much about.”

There’s a wistful smile lingering on her lips and Clarke blinks, coming to the realization that she would gratefully press her lips to that very smile if given the chance. She shakes her head, dispelling the image.

“So…,” The word slips out slowly, held back by the sluggishness of her thoughts. “You’ve got a bit of wanderlust, huh?”

Lexa laughs, twisting her hands together. “I wouldn’t go as far as that. My mind tends to wander more than I am physically willing to. You could call it escapism.”

“I don’t think that label lends it enough credibility,” Clarke says, going to set her things down on the the kitchen counter.

“Care to elaborate?” Lexa follows, intrigued, Clarke’s remark having caught her off guard.

“Yeah,” Clarke turns to face her, leaning back on the pockmarked wooden countertop and gesturing for the other woman to come closer. “It’s not just a means of escape the way some people go out clubbing or I dunno, write fanfiction. Not to take away from those things, we all have our outlets and those play a crucial role in our lives. But wanting to go out and see the world? That’s a calling if I ever heard of one. Not everyone’s drawn to what’s out there in that way, most people would rather settle in one place than follow an open road.”

Clarke tilts her head, regarding the teacher without intent. “Summer’s a good time for it, being a teacher, have you travelled then?”

Lexa runs a hand down the side of her face and rubs at the back of her neck, letting out a sigh. She comes to stand next to Clarke, facing the opposite direction, her palms flat on the cool counter. “Not so far, although Arkeda pays a very decent salary. I suppose realizing that kind of dream, making light of my desire to be elsewhere, I’m a bit... anxious?”

The light is low in the studio now, painting the space in muted shades of grey, and Clarke is fixated on the dim outline of Lexa’s profile in the surrounding darkness. “Anxious how?” She asks softly, stepping closer.

“I suppose I wonder…,” She pauses and in the stretch of shared silence, an impulse takes ahold of Clarke, and her hand gently seeks out Lexa’s, resting lightly on top of the other woman’s. The gesture seems to reassure Lexa and without thought, the words slip out. “...Whether it might be a mistake. If it’s anything more than daydreams and fantasies. What would I do if they were? What if it’s a desire that never ends?”

She turns to look at Clarke, genuinely asking,“How do I come back from that?”

Clarke squeezes Lexa’s hand, and the teacher laughs at her own words. “It all sounds a bit absurd.”

“But it doesn’t.” Clarke shifts, facing Lexa more directly, but never once breaking the unaddressed weight of her hand atop the teacher’s. “You’ve obviously given this a lot of thought and it’s an important decision for you, don’t discount that.”

Lexa’s looking at her suddenly, in a way that’s intrusive but not uncomfortable. She seems curious, perhaps a little perplexed, and Clarke finds herself waiting for the instructor’s next move. Just as quickly, Lexa is looking away again.

“You’re a very caring person, Clarke.” She says into the falling dark.

“A lot of people say I care too much.”

“A lot of people don’t understand what a rare thing that is. I hope you never lose that.”

“And I hope you never stop dreaming.”

Minutes slip by in comfortable silence as the two watch the last rays of sun withdraw into the falling dark. Clarke is wrapped up in the sensation of Lexa’s fingers still resting beneath hers, but her mind is running at an incessant pace, analyzing every miniscule shift of the other woman’s position. She’s just beginning to wonder if she ought to say something when her stomach rumbles loudly.

There’s a beat of silence before she bursts out laughing. Between the casual ease that surrounds the pair and Clarke’s slight restlessness, she’s giddy, and she can’t seem to stop. Covering her mouth with her hand, she leans against the counter, alternately giggling and unsuccessfully attempting to regain her composure. She can’t see Lexa’s expression through the darkness and tears of laughter, but she’s 100% certain that she’s grinning.

Having finally gotten her breath back, she’s more than a little embarrassed, and grateful for the cover of darkness that hides her blush.

“I’m so sorry, I totally ruined our deep moment there. I get kind of weird when my blood sugar drops, plus you make me,” Clarke waves her hands vaguely, “flustered, I guess. I’m a great mood-killer, if you couldn’t tell.”

There’s a soft sound, and it takes a second for Clarke to register that it’s Lexa’s soft laughter.

“I don’t think you ruined anything, Clarke. You have nothing to apologize for. But- I think that rumbling signals a need for food. I assume you have a kitchen?”

“Yeah, although honestly the most-used appliance in there is the coffeemaker.”

“Would you mind if I prepared a meal for us?”

Clarke is seized by an impulse she can't name, and it lingers in her struggle to pinpoint the feeling.

She realizes she hasn’t answered when Lexa says, “Consent is key, Clarke, I won’t cook in a woman’s kitchen without it.”

“Oh! Right, yes. Yes, of course! I’m just so in shock from being offered an actual home-cooked meal, I forgot I had to respond.”

“It’s all set then. Except for the lights. I’ll trust you to handle those.”

Clarke keeps waiting for Lexa to hit some kind of wall, some limitation where it’s just not possible for her to get any more swoon-worthy. If that boundary does exist, it’s nowhere in sight tonight. Clarke helps to chop vegetables and points out cupboards where various pans and utensils are housed, but spends most of her time unsuccessfully attempting to drag her eyes away from the other woman.

She’s caught herself biting her lip far too many times at this point, and she reminds herself that she’s lucky that Lexa’s preoccupied with meal preparation.

To be honest, she’s been distracted ever since she looked over to find Lexa standing in her kitchen, smiling softly at her. She was rolling up the sleeves of her button down, having already put on Clarke’s barely-worn Kiss the cook apron, and Clarke practically melted. Her thoughts are interrupted when she realizes that Lexa has had to repeat her name to get her attention.

“Clarke, come here, I want to make sure you like the sauce. Here, take a taste.” She blows lightly on the spoon, her hand carefully cupped below to catch any overflow, and offers it with a smile.

Hesitating a moment, Clarke leans forward to touch her lips to the spoon, and outright moans when the taste spreads over her palate. It’s tangy and spicy and Clarke’s stomach grumbles, immediately clamoring for more. When her eyes flutter open, she just barely catches the quick aversion of Lexa’s gaze, her face several shades redder.

“I, um, you like it?”

“Lexa, this is delicious. What is it? You never told me what you’re making!”

“Just a simmer sauce. Fish and vegetables over rice. Thai-inspired. Not too spicy, is it?”

“Oh god, no. It’s perfect. Seriously.”

“Great! It’s almost done. I’ll serve it up in a few minutes if you get the plates out.”

Lexa’s eyes crinkle slightly around the edges, hinting at another smile as she turns back to the bubbling saucepan. Clarke flushes with affection as Lexa works. She nearly fumbles the plates when she catches a glimpse of the other woman doing a final taste test, eyes closed and nodding with satisfied approval. It’s ridiculous. She needs a distraction before she makes a complete fool of herself.

“Hey did you want to watch a movie while we eat?”

“That would be nice, do you have any favorites?”

“Oh, plenty. I was thinking maybe _Imagine Me & You_?” The suggestion slips out before Clarke remembers the potentially obvious implications of watching a very gay romantic comedy with her gorgeous coworker.

“Classic! I love that movie. I’ve got the plates now, would you…?”

“I’ll set up the movie!” Clarke practically yelps, turning far too eagerly to walk past the wide couch and pull the dvd from its place on the low shelf under the tv.

“Should I bring placemats?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea. They’re in the drawer to your left- The second one down- yep! Considering how often I watch stuff while I eat dinner, you’d think I’d already have some on this table. Raven gives me shit for it all the time. Funny coming from the woman who always has her feet on every table.”

Clarke inserts the dvd and turns on the monitor, the bright screen showcasing the movie’s main menu.

“You and Raven are close.” Lexa says while balancing two glasses of water, two plates and their corresponding utensils in an attempt to set the table in one go. Clarke wrests half of the burden from her, giving her a playful glare and sitting down on the couch before addressing the comment. It’s a statement, but the lilt of Lexa’s voice holds a kind of undemanding curiosity.

“Like I told you, we’ve known each other since college. She’s an ass with a stubborn streak a mile wide and a smart mouth unrivaled by anyone else I’ve met. She’s also a mad genius and loyal as anything. She’s my best friend.” Clarke’s voice softens. She can’t help it, Raven’s been with her through more than anyone else. She smirks affectionately at nothing in particular, and Lexa quietly acknowledges her statement with a slow nod as she goes to take a drink from her glass.

“Pft also she’s dating my mom so I couldn’t get rid of her if I tried.”

Lexa nearly chokes on her sip of water and Clarke bursts out laughing.

“No joke, they’re really disgustingly in love. It was a shock to everyone. Especially them. They spent so long agonizing and fighting it that they wore the rest of us out. The rest of us being everyone in our social group.”

“How did you find out? I- I have so many questions.” Lexa sits cross-legged, gathering her plate into her lap. “If you don’t mind.”

“Well…”

Clarke falls easily into the history of Raven and Abby’s relationship, despite having never told the whole story from beginning to end before. They talk, Clarke’s gestures to emphasizing the dramatic tragedy of Raven’s internal struggle and stopping to recount hazy details while Lexa leans forward, intently focused on Raven and Abby’s many pre-dating antics. She interjects occasionally, asking thoughtful questions and getting answers riddled with eye rolls and fond memories that make both women smile.

Hours slip by, empty plates sitting cold on the low table and the movie’s main menu still splashing the room with light.

It isn’t until Clarke catches herself suppressing a third yawn that she bothers to check the time, and she stares blankly at the numbers on her phone for a long moment.

“Lexa.”

“Mm, what is it?”

“It’s nearly two in the morning.”

She grins incredulously, slumping back against the couch cushions. She hears Lexa laugh softly in response, and looks over to find the other woman rubbing at the corner of her eye with her palm before running the same hand through almost unruly dark hair.

“Well well, Miss Griffin, you certainly know how to weave a captivating story.”

“It’s the least I could do to repay you for dinner. It was absolutely delicious.”

Lexa looks back at her with slightly unfocused eyes, smiling sleepily, and Clarke melts a little.

“Anytime, Clarke. But-,” Lexa checks her watch with a regretful smirk. “I believe I should be going. Even a night owl such as yourself requires some amount of sleep, and it would be un-knightly of me to disrupt that.”

Clarke chuckles. “I’ll get you a Lyft, okay?”

“Oh no, I can-”

“Lex, please.”

“Only if you insist, Clarke.”

“I do.”

“Very well then,” Lexa tips her head back, resting lightly on the back of the couch, and Clarke tries not to stare at the smooth column of her throat. The dark spill of her hair over the grey cushions. The way Lexa stretches subtly before letting out a contented sigh. Okay, maybe she’s not trying that hard. But she manages to order a Lyft before asking Lexa anything stupid, and her phone indicates that the car will arrive only a few minutes later, information which she then relays to Lexa.

“Let me see you out, Miss Woods.” Clarke stands, smoothing the wrinkles from her jeans, and dips into an exaggerated curtsy. 

“But of course, Miss Griffin.” Lexa immediately follows suit, bowing low before moving to collect the plates.

“Oh no you don’t, Ms. Knight. Taking care of dirty dishes in my home is my prerogative. My mom raised a messy daughter, but not a totally terrible hostess.”

“But-”

“No buts. We’ve gotta get you home to bed.”

Lexa dips her head in response, a smile tugging at her lips as she gathers her jacket and Clarke shuffles after her down the hall toward the door, yawning.

They stop in the darkened entryway, Lexa turning to Clarke as they share a last moment of privacy together.

“I had a wonderful time today, Clarke. I look forward to seeing you on Monday.”

“Monday?” Clarke’s tone is teasing. “But I don’t have classes on Mondays, you suggesting I come by just to see you?”

She’s pretty sure Lexa’s face flushes at her observation of the flaw in her comment, but the darkness masks it well.

“Ah, Tuesday it is, then. My mistake,” She ends awkwardly, and Clarke bumps her shoulder good-naturedly.

“Hey. I’m just teasing. I had a really great time today. Maybe we will get lunch one of these Mondays, since I’m not teaching then anyway.”

“I would like that.”

Lexa smiles, and her eyes sparkle in the low light. It’s chilly in the house, and Clarke sways, thoughtlessly leaning toward the warmth that Lexa exudes. Lexa doesn’t pull away and though they’re not touching, Clarke suddenly feels too close.

She glances up to find Lexa looking down at her, and her gaze gets stuck on the other woman’s parted lips. Clarke shivers. Lexa wets her lips, and the cold seems to diffuse, replaced by a flush of warmth and the stutter of a too-loud heartbeat. Clarke can feel Lexa’s breath fan lightly across her face, and her eyes flutter shut of their own volition, the knot in her stomach tightening.

Her phone buzzes.

Looking down, Clarke hopes the pinkness of her cheeks isn’t too obvious in the harsh glow of the screen.

“The Lyft is here.” Her voice comes out husky and she clears her throat self-consciously.

“I’d best be going then.” Lexa takes a step towards the door and Clarke immediately misses their previous closeness.

“Oh-” Clarke stiffens when Lexa wraps her in a hug a heartbeat later, but relaxes into it, breathing in the clean linen and sweet grass scent of the other woman.

She’s warm.

“Thank you, Miss Griffin, again. For a lovely day.” Lexa’s voice is a low murmur, warm in Clarke’s ear.

“Anytime, Miss Woods. You’re always welcome. Text me when you get home?”

“Of course.”

Lexa pulls away, and Clarke thinks she’s almost reluctant. She hesitates for a split second, and Clarke feels the delicate brush of Lexa’s lips over her cheek.

The next thing she knows, she’s holding the door opening, waving as Lexa pulls away in a sleek grey car. Then she goes inside, shutting the door in a daze, and her heartbeat doesn’t slow for what feels like countless long minutes.

She gathers the dishes, setting them in the sink, and quietly admonishing herself for not doing them. As a compromise, she makes herself a promises to get around to them in the morning just as soon as the first pot of coffee is brewed.

It isn’t until she’s sitting in bed that she thinks to check her phone, which has fourteen unread messages in her notifications.

 **Bae-es [11:32 PM]**  
YOOOOOOO

 **Bae-es [11:56 PM]**  
Griffindork you better be getting seriously laid if you’re gonna ignore me like this

 **Bae-es [11:57 PM]**  
Kay I mean we both know you’re a hatstall but whatever

 **Bae-es [12:13 AM]**  
It’s chill just leave me hanging

 **Bae-es [12:16 AM]**  
I better get some all the deets tomorrow

 **Bae-es [12:22 AM]**  
I can’t believe I just said deets

 **Bae-es [12:28 AM]**  
….Abby’s not home and I’m bored

 **Bae-es [12:31 AM]**  
Should I set something on fire

 **Bae-es [12:32 AM]**  
Wait you’d probably yell at me later. Both of you

 **Bae-es [12:34 AM]**  
I’m gonna sleep before I do something dumb

 **Bae-es [12:34 AM]**  
But you better believe I’m coming over tomorrow to grill your ass

 **Bae-es [12:35 AM]**  
‘Night lovebird

Clarke grins at the string of texts, tapping out a quick response before checking her other messages.

 **art hoe [2:23 AM]**  
Woww eager much? Come over for breakfast. Bring stuff from the bakery? And my mom?

 **art hoe [2:25 AM]**  
Wait make that brunch. I’m gonna sleep in. Don’t tell my mom

Clarke’s finger hovers hesitantly over the screen and she braces herself to read the two texts from Lexa. Logically, she knows that Lexa enjoyed their day together as much as she did, but part of her has to wonder if she if simply exaggerating their connection in her mind.

 **[Lexa 2:02 AM]**  
I have arrived home safely, Clarke. Thank you for a wonderful day. I hope to hear more stories in our continuing time together.

 **[Lexa 2:14 AM]**  
I am going to turn in for tonight. I have not seen this hour of the morning for some time, it would seem that you have quite the influence on me. I look forward to our next conversation, Clarke.

She’s grinning. Like an idiot. Especially at the little smiling emoji that makes up the tail end of Lexa’s final text. It’s just a smiley face, but Clarke finds it endearing, finds herself wondering how much of a strain it must have been on Lexa’s proper messaging format to include such a frivolous addition.

 **[Clarke 2:28 AM]**  
I’m glad you’re home safe and getting some rest. Lol that’s the most polite way I’ve ever been called a terrible influence. Is it bad that I’m kind of proud that I keep you up at night?

She deletes, retypes and adds a winky face to her last sentence, then wishes she hadn’t. Cringing, she types out a more moderate sentiment.

 **[Clarke 2:29 AM]**  
I really did have a great time today, so thanks. Although this hostess’ dishes have to wait til tomorrow, if I’m honest… ‘Night, Leksa

She signs off with a sleeping emoji, the tiny z’s floating up to meet the previous line of text. Setting her phone aside, she pulls the covers up, getting comfortable. She’s just barely settled in when her phone lights up. Bleary-eyed, she fumbles to swipe the phone off the nightstand and finds a new text waiting for her.

 **[Lexa 2:29 AM]**  
I think it is safe to say that I keep you up at night as well, Clarke. We are mutually entitled to pride in that respect. Sleep well.

Clarke smiles, falling asleep almost as soon as her head hits the pillow again, and dreams of getting lost in green eyes and faraway places.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Miss me?
> 
> AKA Did you think I possibly got sucked into the void and/or was no longer writing? So did I!
> 
> Hey guys (if any of you are still holding out for this trainwreck of a fluff fic). I hit a pretty bad bout of writer's block and have been struggling a lot with life stuff, as you do. But I've missed writing and I'm trying to get back on track, so thanks for being patient and I hope things are going well with you all.
> 
> I'm on tumblr if you feel like chatting. And as always, thanks for reading. It means a lot <3


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